


The Ghost of a Good Man

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Halloween 13, Canon drug use, Canon-Typical Violence, Greg has a secret, M/M, Minor peril, Noir-esque, Significant discussions of death, do not copy to another site, gentle flirting, mystrade, the slowest of slow burns, ultimate happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: It was entirely possible that there existed, in this world, more than one Greg Lestrade. Multiple versions of the man that endeavored to leave Mycroft wrong footed every time he met with him...Mycroft Holmes has made it his life's work to wrangle his brother, when he isn't up to his eyes in his career. So when he meets a precipitously grey Detective Sergeant willing to keep a weathered eye, Mycroft's interest is piqued... in more ways than one.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 325
Kudos: 160
Collections: A Halloween 13 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween13 - 2020! This is a multichapter work, I'm planning a chapter a day... 2 on weekends until done.  
> THANK YOU TO: Hippo, Paia and Jam - for the betaing support. And to Vulpes for organising this and being a spooky cheerleader all season.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Now with cover:  
> 

Mycroft watched the CCTV footage again, distantly aware of how much trouble this would cause him. His brother was growing more reckless by the day. Now, in sharp black and white, he could be seen crossing the police tape, arguing with… Now three separate Met detectives of various ranks. The older sergeant, third in line for the endless ranting, was… Mycroft tilted his head. The man was not arguing back - at least, he hadn’t dug his heels in. He wasn’t manhandling Sherlock. He wasn’t bollocking him out of it, as Mycroft had witnessed one too many times. He looked… Patient? The odd uncomfortable glance over his shoulder - not at all out of the ordinary - but attentive. If this detective was listening to him, perhaps being kind, how on Earth did Sherlock end up… Ah, Sherlock had vomited on his shoes. As far as deserved ASBOs went, Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ever the charmer, Sherlock.

It wouldn’t be prudent to negotiate Sherlock’s release too quickly. His utterly belligerent behaviour aside, allowing Sherlock time to come down was wise. Doing so without unduly exposing the breadth of Mycroft’s oversight would be the challenge. He gently freed his pocket watch and checked the time. It would be shift change at eight. Perhaps he would make an appearance at seven. He could have a word with the DS before he clocked out for the day, liberate his brother from Her Majesty's punitive care, and be back at his desk for the morning call with Berlin. A fitting start to what would likely be a very long and dull day.

He timed it splendidly. Entering the building at ten seconds to seven, reaching the floor at ten seconds after seven. Being shown to the appropriate desk at seven-o-one by a tired, but genial arm wave.

The detective sergeant in question had a spare chair set out and a firm handshake in spite of the hour and the night he’d had. “DS Lestrade,” he’d given Mycroft a polite, restrained smile and quick assessing glance. “What can I do for you?” He gestured to the chair.

Mycroft sat, propping his umbrella against the side of the desk and crossing his legs neatly. “Forgive the intrusion, Detective Sergeant, I realise you are due to finish shortly.”

“No intrusion. S’why I’m here.” The smile softened and Mycroft instantly recalculated the man’s age. Not old. Just grey. A very young salt and pepper. An attractive, young, salt and pepper.

“With my deepest apologies, I believe you have my errant, younger brother in your holding cells.”

“Do I?” his brow creased as he reached for a stack of files. “Name?”

“Holmes,” Mycroft forced a smile. “Sherlock Holmes.”

He paused, only halfway through the folders, and an amused smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Oh boy.”

“Indeed.”

He set the folders down, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed a palm across his mouth. Mycroft had the distinct impression he was hiding a full blown grin behind the hand. “Brother?”

“Yes. He is my younger brother.”

He hummed. “Full disclosure, he is here. He’s down in the drunk tank, sobering up.”

“If only it were alcohol,” Mycroft added flippantly.

The DS sighed. “So you know.”

Mycroft picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers. “I am more than aware. He is… rather resistant to my assistance in that realm.”

“Right.” He studied Mycroft, his eyes sweeping over him in an oddly assessing manner that Mycroft rarely experienced. Then the dark eyes softened, an unusual combination of wizened and youthful humor creasing the corners. “Promise me you’ll try to get him some help?”

“I assure you, it is and has been my foremost concern.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He stood, stretching for a moment before offering another one of those polite, untrue smiles. “Let’s go see if he made the duty officer cry yet.”

Mycroft followed him out of the bullpen curiously. It wasn’t the normal reaction his presence evoked. It wasn’t the usual response to Sherlock either. It was relaxed and somewhat resigned. It seemed to lack the normal survival instinct either of them provoked, and Mycroft couldn’t parse how his own arrival had eased the man’s day, rather than exacerbating it. And if there was one single trait that Mycroft shared with his brother, it was the irritation by the unknown.

The elevator pinged and DS Lestrade led him down to lock up, insisting he wait at the desk. He might not be able to see his brother, but he could hear the exchange - the acoustics of the concrete corridor tending to reverberation.

“Alright, up and at ‘em.”

“You again, why are you he- Oh.”

“C’mon. Your brother is here to collect you.”

“I’d rather languish in your cells.”

“Would you? To each his own. But I’m off until Monday morning.”

“Monday?!”

“You’re the one that thinks you can die of boredom. Wanna test that theory?”

“No.”

“Up, c’mon. I hate it down here.”

“You hate it?”

“Your brother is waiting.”

“I wasn’t wrong. He was killed by th-”

“Sherlock. Please. Remember what I told you. Truth doesn't matter. We need evidence to prove it.”

“Dull.”

“I know… You’ve already said. Let’s go.”

Sherlock was dragging his heels, muttering and scowling, but he did make his way down the hall to the desk, his escort’s face looking the slightest bit pinched in the corners. Mycroft signed the necessary forms and gave a nod of appreciation. “Thank you, Detective Sergeant.”

“They let just about anyone into the Met these days,” Sherlock complained.

Mycroft sighed, but the comment was met with a wry smile and a half laugh. “Let you in, didn’t they?”

Sherlock’s face pulled. “If you cretins expended one iota of-”

“Yes, very good,” Mycroft took his upper arm and guided him towards the elevators.

“-what little brain matter-”

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” The elevator doors opened, and Mycroft refrained from flinging his brother in.

“-quite possibly the most idiotic-”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. His brother was a challenge - both to the world at large and to himself personally. This recent foray into self-medication with recreational drugs, and the odd more illicit medication would need to stop. The issue was how? Sherlock was a force unto himself. Rigid in his opinions once formed, brutal in his dismissals. And now that he’d decided that Mycroft no longer cared for his well-being, it would be near impossible to alter that perspective. With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft lifted his gaze, catching sight of the Detective Sergeant, arms crossed, leaning against the wall by the desk. And just before the doors slid shut, Mycroft was certain he saw an amused grin on the man’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft found that keeping tabs on his brother was growing increasingly difficult. His habit of alienating the people he met and going to ground whenever Mycroft attempted to intervene was causing his left eye to twitch. And while he could allocate a small amount of his growing resources to monitor Sherlock, it was a vulnerability that he could hardly afford. To make matters worse, Sherlock had taken an unusual shine to the DS that had detained him. It led to further crime scene incidents and the attention of the Met. Never a good thing for one so inclined to illegal substances.

In one of his more lucid tirades, Sherlock had ranted about the man. “He keeps asking how. Always how. Not what I know. How I know it. ‘Explain it to me then.’ As though he could possibly grasp the detail I see. How.” Mycroft thought it was a lovely karmatic reply to Sherlock’s ever-present demands of ‘Why,’ but he would never mention it aloud. 

Obviously, Mycroft had thoroughly vetted Detective Sergeant (Greg) Lestrade.  _ Thoroughly. _ And had learned shockingly little. Far younger than he’d initially assumed. Born at midnight on a Christmas Eve then raised in London. No real family to speak of. Mother, never married and deceased at a young age. No siblings. University in Edinburgh, briefly in Manchester, then back to London. No long term partners. No flags in his employment record, adequate performance, increasingly successful now that he had moved into CID. No flags in his personal record save for a sealed juvenile record… Interesting. But not a challenge, and far less interesting once Mycroft had the chance to review it. Domestics, quite pedestrian. Financially stable, though not exceedingly comfortable. Overall, rather banal. Goodness, he had gone grey at a young age. He didn’t bother with the health records. Lestrade was, albeit oddly kind to Sherlock, painfully normal.

Something about the normality rankled. Why would one so otherwise unimpressive have such undue influence over his brother? Why did Sherlock bother? Why did Lestrade bother for that matter? What did either gain from the other? Lestrade didn’t need the assistance, from what Mycroft could gather. Perhaps the odd investigation was closed sooner, but the closure was always inevitable, with or without Sherlock’s input. For the second time in a relatively brief period, Mycroft was irritated by the unknown. And particularly by this one, peculiarly normal, boring, unsung, irksomely attractive man.

Given Sherlock’s attachment and the DS’s unusual ability to tolerate the intrusions in return, Mycroft set a meeting with the DS. To appease his curiosity, or so he told himself. At some point, he would concede that perhaps his version of ‘setting a meeting’ was the smallest bit high-handed. Then again, Mycroft found he learned a great deal about a person when they were forced to face the unease of the unfamiliar. And if Mycroft was, deep down, a bit melodramatic at heart, these liaisons allowed him to show his true colors.

Lestrade had been unceremoniously abandoned in the disused, underground car park, as Mycroft waited and watched from the comfort of his car. Lestrade shifted, caught in the high beams of the idling car, his shoulders hunched around his ears and his gaze flitting uncomfortably around the space. It was a telling show of fight or flight, evenly balanced. Perhaps he was concerned it involved one of his recent investigations- the one skirting the reckless, up and coming drug cartel. Regardless, as the creeping anxiety became more apparent on his face, Mycroft decided it was time to settle at least half of his nerves.

He eased out of his car, shutting the door with a click that echoed in the empty space. "Detective Sergeant." The engine cut, taking the lights with it, ticking as it cooled. "Pleasure as always."

Lestrade squinted into the sudden darkness, his hands fisted firmly at his side. “Really? Always?”

It was bravado. A tightly reined fear. Mycroft watched as the emergency lights turned over, dimly illuminating the space. The man’s face remained tense, alert and wary, his eyes black in the red-tinged glow. “Of course,” Mycroft smiled.

Lestrade let out a terse sigh and crossed his arms, very little of his discomfort alleviated by recognition, but clearly no longer aiming to throw a punch. "You know, kidnapping is illegal."

"Kidnapping?" He feigned interest in the tip of his umbrella. "Goodness no. Can't two people have a civilized conversation about a mutual interest?"

"This is a conversation?" Lestrade uncrossed his arms but kept his hands out of his pockets. Uneasy. He flinched at a distant sound, the rumble of the tube, his gaze flickering briefly towards the far corner over Mycroft’s shoulder. “You know, I have an office. And a phone. Interrogation rooms at the Met.”

Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment. Humor in the face of apprehension. “And where would be the fun in that?”

“Where’s the civilised in this?”

“Simply that.” Mycroft moved closer, closing the distance in even strides. “My brother-”

“Oh, piss off,” Lestrade cut across him, struggling not to step back.

He tilted his head, using his three inch advantage to its fullest. “I’m merely intrigued by this friendship you and he have struck up.”

Lestrade snorted. “I’m not friends with your brother.”

“No?” Mycroft watched with interest as Lestrade’s expression worked. This close, he could see the faint line between the deep brown of his irises and dark void of pupil. The distinctive silver of his hair that was far enough in the majority that he was more salt than pepper. The creases that lined his face, seeming well-earned in spite of his age. Handsome, and perhaps made more so for the heat in his glare.

“What do you want?”

“I find myself willing to encourage this new found camaraderie,” Mycroft let the corner of his mouth curl. “Financially, if necessary.”

“You,” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed sharply, “want to pay me? To…” He winced, glancing around Mycroft for a beat and swallowing before meeting Mycroft’s gaze again. “Y-you can’t just pay me to mind your brother.” He took a breath and straightened, crossing his arms even as the color seemed to drain from his face. “And you can’t abduct members of the Met.” His voice rose as if he was trying to talk over non-existent ambient noise. “You and, and t-this specter of melodrama can fuck off.”

Mycroft lifted a brow. Fascinating. He suspected the man’s palms were sweating. Nothing but heat and justifiable anger for himself, but distracted tension for the situation at hand. Perhaps he’d found himself alone in an empty garage before. Perhaps he’d had unwitnessed altercations in the past. Nevertheless, he had told Mycroft to fuck off. And that, in and of itself, was singular. “Detective Sergeant, I assure you, I haven’t abducted you. You aren’t far from-”

“I know Liverpool Street Station, Ta,” he bit out.

“Even from the lower basement of the car park? No one could accuse you of not knowing your city.”

“I have an excellent sense of direction.”

Mycroft pursed his lips in an effort not to smile. DS Lestrade was nothing if not interesting. “Very well. I can only hope your moral compass is equally attuned.”

“Christ, the pair of you,” Lestrade muttered to himself. “Leave me alone, Mr. Holmes.”

Whether he’d clocked the exit when he’d arrived or he simply knew where the stairwell lay, Lestrade turned on his heel and headed for the door. His third step faltered, a hesitation as a visible shudder ran through his shoulders. Mycroft wondered if it was still anger. A bit of revulsion at the proposal. He hadn’t thought it was quite that distasteful. Lestrade dropped his head, watching the floor as if it had betrayed him, the stumble blamed on uneven concrete. He didn’t look up as he pushed through the fire exit or even as he started up the stairs.

Mycroft allowed himself a moment of disappointment that he hadn’t looked back. But only a moment. He punched a familiar number into his mobile and waited as the line connected. “Yes, do keep an eye. I fear I’ve upset him.”

“Yes, Sir. He’s in the station.”

“Doing?”

“Waiting for the tube.”

“Which line?”

“Hammersmith.”

Mycroft hummed. Home then. “Behaviour?”

“Unsettled.”

“I see.” Interesting. “I will be back in the office shortly.” He would check the CCTV then. Only to ensure that Lestrade made it home. Then he’d be sure that one of his business cards found its way onto Lestrade’s desk. On the off chance the man changed his mind. Or preferred to call.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft didn’t hear from Lestrade for some time. As a matter of fact, he didn’t hear from Sherlock either. His brother was either behaving himself or he was laying low. Regardless, it allowed him time to manage a few of the more pressing governmental issues, coordinate one or two treaties, and attend a rather important state dinner without interruption. It was all quite civilised… A little too civilised.

When his Argentinian counterpart flagged the suspicious chatter, Mycroft was skeptical, but attentive. When the Brazilian attache disappeared, the issue had his full and undivided attention. And when Joao Andrade turned up dead in the kitchen freezer of one of the popular Peruvian steak houses, Mycroft knew his intervention would be necessary. It was a familiar pattern. A known entity - or rather, an entity known within very specific circles, and one that would require careful political maneuvering, if not strictly Eyes Only procedure.

Unfortunately, the body had been found at the beginning of the SoHo theater dinner rush. The Yard was already investigating. SOCO was on scene. The coroner was refusing to release the body. Worse still, the press had gotten wind of the story. All in the matter of an hour. Mycroft could feel the migraine coming on. He set his assistant, with a group of eager-to-please interns, onto the issue of the press. He would manage the body. MI5 would handle the Met. It needed doing within the hour, so without delaying, Mycroft headed to the St. Thomas’ mortuary to collect the largest and most sensitive piece of evidence.

The man at the sign-in desk took the hint upon reading Mycroft’s ID, immediately forgetting that he saw Mycroft in the first place and making himself scarce. The coroner was off site; the body was in the negative temperature room. And when he arrived, Mycroft was instantly both grateful for his foresight and deeply regretting attending to the task himself. Because DS Lestrade was also in the mortuary… As was Sherlock. He could have groaned his frustration aloud. Lestrade, he could manage. The man was achingly committed to law and order and was bound to see reason. Sherlock, on the other hand, would be difficult just to spite him.

Their conversation filtered from the main room, Lestrade’s gruff voice carrying in the tiled hallway. “For the absolute last time, Sherlock, I don’t care. Get out.”

“I can help you! If you would just listen!”

“Are you high?”

Sherlock scoffed loudly and Mycroft could only assume he was rolling his eyes. It wasn’t a denial. “Are you?”

“Sherlock! Don’t touch him! Jesus!” There was a clear comotion, briefly physical. “What did I say?! Out! For the love of God.”

“But I know who di-”

Lestrade cut across him with an angry growl. “So do I! But it doesn’t matter. I need evidence, not a name. I told you that.”

Mycroft sighed and sent up a quick, desperate prayer that Lestrade did not, in fact, know who had killed Mr. Andrade and was simply placating Sherlock. He slipped through the swinging doors, a bit surprised to find Lestrade leaning against the wall, fidgeting in an uncharacteristic display of agitation nearly as blatant as Sherlock’s. He cleared his throat. “Brother, dear.”

Sherlock whipped around, frowning viciously at Mycroft. “Of course you’re here.” Mycroft lifted a brow and got a snarl in response. “Here to bury the evidence? Disappear some witnesses? Try not to terrorize the constabulary, they do work so hard.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. But Sherlock blew past him, knocking into his shoulder on the way out. Mycroft very carefully side-stepped the door that might have otherwise hit him on the backswing. He forced a smile. “Detective Sergeant.”

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Please don’t say it’s a pleasure. It’s not, and I can’t take it right now.”

In spite of the dry humor, he looked… Tired. Like he was trying to carry the weight of the world and starting to fail. Like he had a headache worse than Mycroft and was barely powering through it. In spite of that, there was tension in his frame, his shoulders rigid with it. Perhaps it was the investigation, or investigations - plural - as Lestrade’s team collected the heavy and high profile violent crimes like bad pennies. Perhaps it was Sherlock; any extended amount of time with his brother was more than likely to result in a migraine. Maybe he’d been out too late the night before and was suffering for it now. It was difficult to say precisely. And not knowing irked Mycroft. “It is regrettable that we are forced to meet under such circumstances, of course.”

“No, sure. Empty car parks are so much better.”

Mycroft couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that inched across his face. “Surely your mode of transportation was more to your liking today?”

Lestrade huffed then twitched, his face pinching as he reached up to massage his shoulder. “Look, aside from tormenting your brother, why are you here?”

“Ah.” He took a moment, pretending to choose his words carefully. He didn’t need the time, but it often put others at ease and it appeared as though the DS very much needed to be put at ease. “As a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, I have come to… Attend to the situation at hand.” It wasn’t a lie. It was a gentle molding of the truth. Omissions for the safety of all those involved. Lestrade was yet unaware of Mycroft’s true and full occupation; hints and suggestions, whispers of implication would have to do. Lestrade was not unintelligent; he would read between the lines.

Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “Attend to…”

“You have identified the victim, have you not? And you must be aware of the international implications-”

Lestrade heaved a pained breath and bowed his head, shaking a steady, slow negative at the tips of his shoes. “Christ.”

It wasn’t the reaction Mycroft had expected. A verbal argument, certainly. Threats and bureaucratic blustering, absolutely. Exhausted resignation was new. He took a step closer. “The Security Services will be taking over.”

Lestrade planted his hands on his hips, wincing at the floor. “When?”

“Now.”

After a moment, Lestrade lifted his gaze, studying Mycroft’s face too intently. “He was murdered.”

During training, when Mycroft had been painfully young, too young for the responsibilities he was shouldering, one of his instructors took to calling him Michaelangelo. Had told him he managed to create unmoving expressions that looked real enough, but were nothing but blank, cold stone at the core. At the time, he had been flattered, but attempted to dissuade the use of such a moniker - it was far too long, too much of a mouthful. It had taken a number of years and a handful of near failures for Mycroft to realise that unmoving was dangerous and stone was far too inflexible for utility. Water, on the other hand… “He was.”

Lestrade wet his lips and nodded. “You know who did it.”

Mycroft’s brow inched upwards, the remainder of his face carefully impassive. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of well-trodden truth. “I do.”

He pressed his lips together for a moment, his eyes firm, resolute. “Promise me there’ll be justice.”

Interesting. No demand for assurance of arrest, of due process, or imprisonment or trial. Justice. And while he definitely couldn’t attest to any of the others, justice was one thing Mycroft was absolutely certain would be had. “I assure you. There will be.”

Lestrade’s face pinched, as though he’d suddenly remembered something tragic. Good Lord, that man could express volumes of emotion with his eyes. Pain especially. Exhaustion and pain. “He had a family,” his voice cracked. “A little girl.”

“Yes.” He nodded, unsure what else he could do. Also unclear how Lestrade was aware of the family. Joao might have carried a picture in his wallet, or if he’d been identified, the family might have been sought. Hopefully not. “Have they been told?”

“No. No,” Lestrade gave himself a shake. “God no. Just…”

“They will be looked after.”

Lestrade watched him, studied, tried to climb inside Mycroft’s head and determine if he meant it. And if he did mean it, that it wasn’t a sinister implication. Something must have finally given way. Sincerity accepted, Lestrade gave a silent nod and headed for the door. Ready to leave Mycroft to his task. Ready to walk away from a murder investigation. Ready to accept that he would never actually know the outcome. It was far more peaceable than Mycroft had expected and it left him feeling unsteady. Lestrade scooped his coat from the chair and paused, arms half in. “Can’t be like Comodoro, Mr. Holmes.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed reflexively. It most certainly could not be like Comodoro. And then Lestrade was gone. Out through the swinging doors. And Mycroft froze. There was no way on Earth that Detective Sergeant Lestrade should know about Comodoro. Mycroft had, until moments ago, been quite happy and safe in the knowledge that he was one of only two people aware of that mission. And Mycroft was here in the morgue to collect the other.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a matter of months before Mycroft could accept the comment from Lestrade as off-hand. After all, Joao had been born in Comodoro, and was from Comodoro. Perhaps it was a reference to the rather casual approach to law and order found along that border. Perhaps. 

Regardless, Mycroft had invested a significant amount of time and resources scouring both Joao and Lestrade for a possible connection, for any indication that Lestrade was tied to international groups, for a thread that might have led the DS to mention a very small town in the Brazilian mountains. He found nothing. His assistant found nothing. MI5 found nothing, though their review was a limited check of the initial investigator of a situation that ultimately fell under their purview. And Lestrade didn’t speak Portugese.

A closer look at the sealed juvenile files only illustrated the fact that Lestrade’s mother had poor taste in men and even from a young age, Lestrade had a clear sense of right and wrong and righteous streak a mile wide. Youth had lent itself to impetuousness and resulted in more than one hospitalisation, but he gave as good as he got, apparently. None of which explained the incomprehensible, cracking veneer of mundane that gnawed at the corners of Mycroft’s awareness. So he resolved that whether or not he accepted the comment, Mycroft certainly wasn’t going to forget it. And going forward, he would be forced to abide by the maxim of friends close, enemies closer. 

In the spirit of ‘closer,’ Mycroft decided it was time for another meeting. This time, it was a scheduled meeting, complete with phone confirmation and a slightly overbearing insistence that Lestrade allow a car to collect him. If Mycroft was willing to meet with the man, he certainly wouldn’t do so on neutral or enemy soil. Rather, he set up camp in his Club office, and awaited Lestrade’s arrival.

A perfunctory knock on the door heralded Lestrade’s arrival, and Mycroft was, again, taken aback by his demeanor. Rather than the nerves or agitation Mycroft had come to expect, Lestrade had followed the escort through the quiet room and appeared to be… Relaxed. At ease. His hands were nonchalantly deep in his pockets and his shoulders missing the near ubiquitous line of tension. And he was biting back an amused grin. A flicker of mischief and humor flashed through his eyes and Mycroft was struck again by an impulsive fancy. He was charming. And he knew it. The cheek of him. Mycroft waved the attendant a quick dismissal and continued his silent assessment well after the door clicked shut.

Lestrade raised both brows in question. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and when he failed to answer, Lestrade managed the equivalent of an entire body shrug without taking his hands out of his pockets. It made Mycroft frown. And the moment his mouth twitched downward, Lestrade started laughing. It was immature and irrational and deepened the frown creasing Mycroft’s face. “A bit of decorum, if you would.”

Lestrade rounded out his amusement with a snort. “You’re the one that dragged me here to talk, Mr. Holmes. I assume talking is,” he gestured with one hand - still in his pocket. “Allowed?”

“Why wouldn’t it be allowed? This is one of my offices.”

“It’s like a mausoleum of the undead out there,” Lestrade huffed. “You’re half anyone’s age and then some.”

“It’s unwise to speak ill of the dead, Detective Sergeant.”

“Undead,” he corrected with a grin. “And good. I’m shite with charades.”

Mycroft hid his urge to smile behind a roll of the eyes and a polite but firm gesture at the chair. “Do sit down. May I get you something to drink? I have an excellent scotch in the decanter.”

He finally took his hands out of his pockets, but now was lounging in the chair. How bizarre. “No. Ta. I’m still on the clock.”

That, Mycroft thought, was a lie. Strange. Why lie about something so benign. “Oh dear. On the clock and taking a meeting with a private citizen in their club. How unseemly.”

“Joint security taskforce.” A broad smile stretched across Lestrade’s face. “DI can’t say no to that. But you called this meeting. What do you want?”

“Simply an update,” Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “As per your last request,” he allowed his voice to drop with the gravity of the statement, “there was… justice.” He watched the confusion work its way through Lestrade’s gaze. Confusion, concern, then a slowly dawning understanding. Gratifying.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Oh. Um… Good.”

“You are not surprised.” Mycroft brushed a hand down his thigh, smoothing non-existent creases.

“I… N-no,” Lestrade furrowed his brow. “You promised. Was I supposed to think that you wouldn’t?”

How frank and deceiving all at once. There were layers upon layers in the way Lestrade spoke and moved. All so bland and yet convoluted. “No. I never promise something I cannot deliver. Though I never took you as a man for blind faith.”

Lestrade sighed. “S’not blind. Just experience.”

Mycroft pondered that. Experience with whom? Himself? In general with the rest of the world? With the Holmes family, perhaps? He hummed. “How is my brother?”

“Minding his own business,” Lestrade answered pointedly. And when Mycroft felt his own mouth twitch in amusement, Lestrade responded with almost fond exacerbation. “And so should you. He’s… Getting on. Leave it at that.”

“You know what they say, Detective Sergeant. Three can keep a secret…”

Lestrade lifted a brow, a curious smile on his face. “Fan of Franklin, are you?”

“His wisdom within certain realms was unassailable.”

“Like airbathing?”

“Goodness no.”

“Swimming the Thames?”

Mycroft actually wrinkled his nose. “Certainly not.”

“Do I need to check the basement?”

Mycroft tilted his head curiously.

“Dig up all the bodies you have hidden down there?”

Amusing thought. “I am afraid you’d be woe to find something buried in my basement.”

Lestrade huffed.

“Not that there is anything to find, of course.”

“Yeah. I’m a bigger fan of Haniel Long.” Haniel Long… Mycroft cast his mind back. Certainly a writer. Probably American. When he didn’t respond, Lestrade pushed himself out of the chair. “Thanks for the update, Mr. Holmes. You know where to find me.”

“Yes, of course.” Strange that the meeting had seemed to end without Mycroft's permission. “Would you like a car-”

Lestrade’s mobile gave a shrill ring. “Sorry. One…” He tugged it out and answered, turning his back on Mycroft. “Lestrade… No… I know, yeah I’m-... No,” he glanced over his shoulder and flashed a wry smile. “I’m not being murdered by MI5… Not like you’d ever hear about it… No, of course, Sir… I’ll be right there.”

Mycroft lifted a brow as the call ended. “Goodness.”

Lestrade grinned with amusement, but a familiar tension had settled in his shoulders, the brightness gone from his eyes. “Sorry. Duty calls.” He jerked a thumb at the door. “Missing person and all that.”

“You are still on the clock, of course.”

“Yeah.” He paused just before he opened the door. “Thanks for calling ahead this time. M’not a huge fan of surprises.”

Mycroft watched him leave, considering the difference with the DS at ease rather than in the throes of an investigation. Entertaining conversationalist. Never unpleasant to look at either. He rose absently and started to scour his bookshelf. Clearly impertinent when it suited. Ah yes, the Modern American Poetry Anthology. Oddly attuned to the people around him. He flipped to the index and found Long then opened to the appropriate page… Ah… He lifted a brow sharply as he read. Of course…

_ THEY say that dead men tell no tales! _

_ Except of barges with red sails  
_ _ And sailors mad for nightingales; _

_ Except of jongleurs stretched at ease  
_ _ Beside old highways through the trees; _

_ Except of dying moons that break  
_ _ The hearts of lads who lie awake; _

_ Except of fortresses in shade,  
_ _ And heroes crumbled and betrayed. _

_ But dead men tell no tales, they say! _

_ Except old tales that burn away  
_ _ The stifling tapestries of day: _

_ Old tales of life, of love and hate,  
_ _ Of time and space, and will, and fate. _


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft made a conscious decision to leave Lestrade to his own devices. Fully intending to keep his distance physically while leaving a watchful eye on him. For as long as possible. Or as long as Sherlock managed to stay out of trouble. It seemed… Prudent. He hadn’t taken the implied poetry as a threat. If it was, it was far more subtle than any Mycroft had slung at Lestrade. 

And while Mycroft had planned to keep his distance in the figurative sense, he also managed distance in the quite literal sense - a month long tour of Southeast Asia, to be precise. It was a rather dull and intensive affair. He saw the insides of a number of government meeting rooms, attended dinners, bartered and negotiated with officials from the private and public sectors alike. And when he finally landed back in London in the early evening, he went home to sleep for what he could only hope was another month.

The shrill ring of his mobile woke him in the dark and he answered on autopilot. Mycroft Holmes, whether at work, at home, on trip, on a holiday, was always available. Particularly to those who had his mobile number. “Yes?”

“Oh thank God!”

Mycroft rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and blinked them open, squinting at his phone in confusion. It was half three in the morning. What a peculiar time to make use of his number and in a state of panic as well. “Lestrade?”

“I’m sorry. I’m…” There was a pause. A deep breath. The distinct sound of a swallow. “Mr. Holmes. I… m’sorry to wake you. I, it’s Sherlock.” The receiver was muffled and Lestrade shouted something.

Mycroft was awake. Instantly and sharply awake, a cold sense of dread settling in his stomach. “What about Sherlock?”

He could hear the chaotic noises swirling in the background now. Alarms. Loud conversation. Clatter and rumble. “He… He’s not-not good. I think he OD’d.”

Oh Sherlock. Mycroft allowed himself one single moment of crushing guilt - he had been out of London for too long. “Where?”

“Lads?!” Lestrade covered the receiver again, then was back. “UCL. Maybe in four minutes.”

He was up, out of the bed and searching for clothes. Anything really. He hadn’t unpacked yet, so he overturned the suitcase on the floor. “I am on my way.”

“Yeah. Ok, good.”

“Stay with him,” Mycroft ordered.

“... Ok.”

He hung up. Shoes, he needed his shoes. Wallet, he tisked himself for having nothing but Yen. He’d need to ring for a car. Car requested. Keys. Coat. He was certainly forgetting something, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be important.

The car arrived within minutes, pulling swiftly into the ever-present traffic. Nothing was ever far away in London, but it would always take the bones of half an hour to get there. And Mycroft was impatient. He fidgeted. Drumming his fingers against his thigh, running his hand through his hair. Carefully drawing himself in, preparing for the worst. He would be forced to ring his parents...

His mobile chimed. Text.

_ In ICU. Room six. _

Helpful. At least he could bypass the chaos of the Emergency Department.

It had been a significant amount of time since he’d last set foot in UCH. They had made improvements. Modernized. Improved the lighting and atmosphere. He was directed to the elevators. Sent o the ICU to find another desk. Another attendant. Another direction towards his brother’s room. He was waylaid before he could reach the door.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He eyed her up. Doctor - intensivist. Young, but adequate. On call this evening. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and tried to remind himself of his manners. “Apologies. Mycroft Holmes.” He held out a hand.

“Dr. Daly.” She took his hand for a brief, perfunctory shake. “Before you go in, I was just hoping to fill in a bit of detail regarding your brother’s medical history?”

Of course. “Of course.” His brain and mouth seemed out of sync, so he tried to focus on the most rote information first. Date of birth, full name, medications, allergies, past admissions - that one time he broke his arm, then the briefest and most flippant mention of drugs. He didn’t know, couldn’t know what Sherlock had taken. He had his suspicions, based on past use, it could possibly be any one or a combination of many. He sucked in a breath having somehow run out at the end of a sentence. How out of character for him.

“Do you need to sit down, Mr. Holmes?”

“No. No, I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” She didn’t look as though she believed him, but they were standing in such a way that she might catch him if he fainted. “He’s intubated. Sedated for the ventilation. At the moment, we need him to rest, we need to keep an eye on his liver and kidneys. We won’t wake him up for a day or two at the earliest.”

“Neurologically?”

She tilted her head, clearly couching the blow in something she could find palliatable. “He arrested. Was found not breathing. That his heart is doing what it should is a good sign. I think he was lucky.”

Lucky…

“But we really won’t know until we wake him up.”

Oh Sherlock, what have you done? He nodded. “Who-who found him?”

“Cop,” she said bluntly. “A detective. Might still be in the room. Said he wouldn’t leave until family arrived.”

He nodded again and took a breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m here for the night. If you have questions, the nurses will find me. Are you ok on your own?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “Of course.”

She patted his arm. “Have them call me with anything.”

Then Mycroft was left at the door. Staring at the entry into his nightmares. And wondering if there was any way this wasn’t real. He turned the knob and stepped inside.

Oh.

Not imagined.

Very real.

He felt distant as he took in the state of things. The tubes - Lord, so many. The whir of the ventilator. The beep of the monitors. The odd perpetual motion of stillness in the room. Sherlock… 

The chair at the bedside was empty. Strange. He needed an extra breath to realise why that struck him as odd. It actually took him a moment to notice Lestrade, sitting on the floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up with both hands buried in his hair, trembling silently. It was almost harder to look at than Sherlock. Almost.

The door clicked shut and Lestrade startled, his eyes snapping open as he looked up. Then he lunged to his feet. “Sorry. Christ. I… Sorry.”

Mycroft stuck out a hand as Lestrade swayed on his feet. The man was positively ashen and holding himself up with the wall. He looked… Terrified. “Are you-”

“M’fine.”

He wasn’t even dressed in work clothes. Jeans and a jumper. He looked as if he’d been torn from sleep as much as Mycroft had. But that didn’t seem possible. “I…”

“Hey, sorry.” Lestrade rubbed his palms across his thighs. “You should,” he gestured at the chair. “I’ll just…”

Mycroft sank into the chair, appreciating the support for this new view he had of his brother. “You stayed.”

Lestrade propped his back against the wall and nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “You asked me to.”

“You… Found him?”

Lestrade’s face pinched, and if anymore color could drain from his cheeks, it did. “Yeah. I…” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “I hadn’t heard from him in a while and went to check…”

“I see.” Mycroft sat with that for a moment. If Lestrade hadn’t bothered, he’d be waking up to a very different phone call. He’d be making very different arrangements in his head. “Was he...?”

Lestrade shook his head, his hands visibly shaking. “I um… I started… I mean, they train us. So… A-and called the ambulance.”

Mycroft nodded.

“I’m… I’m sorry I had to, that I called with-”

“Thank you for thinking to contact me.” The thought of receiving the call from the Emergency Department, the ICU, from some poor sap that managed to find Sherlock’s wallet and track him down. “I’ve been away.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened in confusion.

“Out of the country on business. Four weeks.”

“Oh.” Lestrade wet his lips absently. He closed his eyes and took a few fortifying breaths. “D-d’you need anything?”

“Hm? Me? No.” Mycroft tried to reassemble his thoughts. “I will be fine here. Thank you.”

“Ok.” He swallowed heavily, glancing at Sherlock. “Ok.”

“Are you alright?”

“What? Yeah.” Lestrade blew out a breath. “Yeah. Fine.” He very clearly wasn’t. But Mycroft couldn’t parse the complexities of the situation. Not yet. “I should…”

“I have a car,” Mycroft offered. Blurted out into the quiet of the room. “A driver. They could take you home.”

“Y’don’t-”

“Please.”

Lestrade blinked at him. “O-ok.”

“They will meet you at the front door. Please, get some rest.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. It wasn’t a smile.

“At least one of us should,” Mycroft added.

“Sure you’re… Being here?”

Mycroft waved him off. “I am. I appreciate the gesture.” It wasn’t a gesture though, not entirely. If Mycroft had asked, he was certain Lestrade would have stayed. “Please see yourself home safely.”

“Right.” He glanced at Sherlock, reassuring himself. “You have my number. If you need… I dunno…”

“Thank you...” It wasn’t pandering. He wasn’t simply aiming for a polite dismissal. He meant it. He really did. “Just, thank you, Lestrade.”

“Greg.” He paused with his hand on the door, taking a fortifying breath before heading out into the hall. “Probably… At this point.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft leaned forward and carefully took Sherlock’s hand between his own. “Mycroft.” Greg nodded and Mycroft realised that he’d never given the DS his first name in all of their previous interactions. “Thank you, Gregory.”

Twenty minutes later, his driver texted, ensuring Mycroft wasn’t in need of his services, relaying a completed mission.

_ Had to pull over so he didn’t get sick on your upholstery. Twice. Left him at his flat. Still shaking. Want me to wait? _

It might be considered rude, but given the state of everything, Mycroft felt safer having someone at Lestrade’s - Greg’s, he corrected - flat until dawn. Just… In case.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft watched warily from the comfort of his vehicle. Lestrade was, in a word, exhausted. The investigation at hand, one in a string of horrors landed at the CID, was dismal. And by Mycroft’s calculations, Lestrade hadn’t seen his bed in forty hours. Whether the twenty minutes used ostensibly to freshen up - change clothes, shower, shave - occurred near the bed was not something Mycroft could know. At least, not without an extensive invasion of privacy. Which he was loath to do… So far.

He watched him sway slightly, unsteady in the frigid wind and rain. Then, to Mycroft’s dismay, he patted down his pockets, found his lighter and pack, and sparked up another cigarette. That was five in the past hour. Either the nicotine or caffeine was all that was keeping him on his feet at this point, and if no one intervened, he would face plant on the scene. It was unnerving to watch - enough so that Mycroft signaled his driver and emerged from the car. He needn’t watch any further.

Umbrella opened, and preventing the worst of the damp from reaching him, Mycroft came to a stop at Lestrade’s side, offering but not forcing the shelter. Lestrade sighed out a long plume of smoke and didn’t bother to shift under the umbrella. “Mr. Holmes,” he offered in hoarse greeting.

“Those things will be the death of you.”

Lestrade gave a humorless laugh. “No they bloody won’t.”

Mycroft scanned his profile, the way his shoulders drew up as his eyes wandered over something only he could see in the distance. The bravado dropping away rapidly into… Grief? Pain? An unending well of something that threatened to draw Mycroft into it. Unacceptable. Mycroft cleared his throat. “I hear congratulations are in order, Detective Inspector.”

His mouth pulled into a bitter half smile as he hummed an acknowledgment. “Ta. Though… I thought we were onto Greg by now.”

Amused, Mycroft pursed his lips. “As you wish, Gregory.”

He huffed out another laugh, muttering to himself as he toed out the cigarette. “So. D’you drive all the way over here just to prove you know about my stupid promotion?”

He had. But he certainly wasn’t going to admit to it. And definitely not now that he’d seen the state Lestrade was in. “I wasn’t aware that a promotion to Detective Inspector at such a young age was considered stupid.”

“No, I’m stupid for taking it.”

What? “Pardon?” Mycroft actually turned, frowning to find Lestrade, eyes closed, with his face tilted up to the cold rain.

“This fucking job,” he whispered. His face creased. “Sorry.”

For all presumed understanding, inferential and otherwise, Mycroft had for Lestrade, avoiding a promotion was not in keeping. Righteous. Strong moral compass. Justice seeking… “Forgive me, but how is accepting a well-earned and frankly boilerplate promotion foolish?”

“I am thirty-three fucking years old, Mr. Holmes,” his voice cracked with exhaustion.

“Mycroft.”

His head dropped and he apologised to his own shoes.

“If we are dropping honorifics.”

“Mycroft.” He heaved a sigh. “The fact remains that I am so fucking…” He flinched. “Sorry. Christ!” He rounded on Mycroft, eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and fatigue, pain and prostration. “I went grey at eighteen! Now I am thirty-three and freezing my bollocks off in the rain! I don’t sleep so I can trudge through mud puddles and bloody sleet because some fucking drug-dealing twat beat his kids to death and sat in my interrogation room crying about the sodding injustice of it all and I have to prove it! God, I’m so fucking tired of it!”

Mycroft swallowed. The flush staining his face betraying the fact that he hadn’t expected the tirade in the least. Nor had he expected the rush of inappropriate thoughts that unfurled a low frisson of heat in his gut. Inconvenient. Improper. Perhaps he’d known Lestrade was attractive - that he found the physical form of the man appealing - but what an inopportune time to truly recognise it.

Before he could respond, Lestrade winced with his entire body. “Sorry! Chr-God.” He dropped to his hunkers with both hands clenched in his hair. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so… I’m so sorry.”   


Mycroft shuddered as the scene snapped him back to the hospital. Lestrade on the floor, pale and trembling. It made nearly as much sense now, on the rain soaked embankment of a half-completed housing development at the dreary outskirts of a crime scene, as it had by his brother’s hospital bed. And in the moment, Mycroft could no longer identify the rain streaking down Lestrade’s face and what was, very likely, tears. 

The twist of distress in his chest was equally ill-timed. He wasn’t prone to fits of empathy and he nearly gasped with the pain of it. He dropped his free hand to Lestrade’s shoulder in an attempt to steady himself and offer comfort. “Gregory…”

Lestrade’s shoulders heaved as he startled and seemed to notice Mycroft’s presence again. He staggered back to his feet and swayed. “Sorry. I…” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, shaking out some of the rainwater that had soaked in. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he tried to put a bit of space between them.

Mycroft reached out instinctively, catching his arm before he could pitch backwards into the ditch. Lestrade shivered, a desperate look in his eyes, but he didn’t try to break free. Cautiously, Mycroft shifted his umbrella to include him, trying and very hopefully succeeding at appearing unthreatening. “Lestrade - Gregory - You are… You’re working yourself to exhaustion.”

A flash of anger was quickly lost to despair as he watched Mycroft from inches away. Then finally, he capitulated and nodded.

Mycroft relaxed the grip he had on his arm, but didn’t release him, not yet. He was less in danger of bolting than of collapsing to the ground. “You need rest.” It lacked the authority with which he normally spoke. More imploring than compelling. “You will be more effective with sleep. Get into the car. Please,” he added for good measure.

Lestrade’s jaw clenched and he cast a forlorn look out over the crime scene. And then he nodded again down at his shoes. “Ok.”

It was a testament to his fatigue that he allowed a gentle guiding hand at the small of his back. Mycroft eyed the slump of his shoulders, the defeat in the curl of his spine. It felt… Private; personal and intimate that he be privy to this concession of defeat. 

Lestrade folded himself clumsily into the car, and they pulled away as soon as Mycroft shut the door in his own wake. He turned up the heat to near uncomfortable levels. Lestrade’s coat and trousers, his shoes and most certainly his socks were soaked through. He’d catch a chill if he wasn’t dry and warm soon. In spite of what must have been damp discomfort, Lestrade was asleep before they’d hit the main streets of London.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft was sitting at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his coffee when Lestrade padded hesitantly into the room. In spite of the exhaustion and sleep deprivation, Mycroft had heard him wake and shower in the guest suite at an early hour, perhaps his usual morning hour, difficult to be absolutely sure. Regardless, it hadn’t been sufficient sleep to mend the state he’d reached the night before; a point Mycroft was more than happy to make now that he had found the kitchen.

His initial rebuke died before he could open his mouth. A rapid once-over showed a freshly showered and horribly soft version of Lestrade that Mycroft had never seen before. He was back in the undershirt and boxers he’d slept in and wrapped in the terrycloth robe left in the guest suite for just that purpose. His eyes were fatigue-bruised and he’d yet to put his damp hair to order. Gone was the barely tempered rage and distress from the night before, and though very clearly tired, he looked somewhat whole again. And he was barefoot. Mycroft arched a brow over the rim of his cup. “Good morning.”

“That explains where,” he said flatly, his voice rough from disuse. He furrowed his brow in consideration, “Why?”

“You fell asleep in my car,” Mycroft answered primly and took a sip of his coffee.

Lestrade took a measured breath, irritation and confusion warring in his expression with something that looked like amusement turning at the corners of his mouth. “Oh. Right, yeah. You couldn’t have, I dunno, woken me up and dropped me home, to my home, with my bed and my clothes.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement. He could have. He had considered it. But Lestrade was quickly and deeply asleep in a way that he simply didn’t wish to wake him fully, let alone pretend not to know where the man lived or force him to climb the five flights of stairs to his flat. A half-dozen steps to Mycroft’s door, semiconscious and sleep-walked with Mycroft supporting him, was far easier. “This was simpler.”

Lestrade blinked, eyeing the corners of the room suspiciously, his thoughts still swirling slower than their normal speed. “Where are my clothes?”

“They were filthy and soaked through; I sent them to be laundered. I expect they shall be returned in a quarter of an hour.” And Mycroft most certainly had not remotely enjoyed the way Lestrade, having been shown to the guest room, methodically stripped off each item of clothing until Mycroft had stepped in and gently stopped him. He’d been forced to turn Lestrade towards the bed by his shoulders and lead him there. Lestrade was back asleep before Mycroft had collected the suit from the floor. “I had assumed you would still be sleeping. How foolish of me. Please sit.”

He looked briefly guilty and sat in the empty seat, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Mycroft tisked and poured him a cup of coffee from the cafetiere, sliding it steadily across the table until Lestrade picked it up. “Um. Thanks.”

Mycroft watched him patiently, waiting for him to drink it. “I assure you, it’s not drugged.”

Lestrade snorted. “Yeah. Pretty sure you could have done whatever you wanted with me last night if that was your plan.” He instantly blushed out to his ears. “I… Uh… Was… Kinda dead on my feet… And all…” He took a too large gulp of the coffee.

“Were you? I didn’t notice,” he replied wryly. Lestrade’s flush deepened, a fetching crimson across his cheeks. Interesting. He allowed the silence to stretch, comfortable with the slight upper hand he had, content to run his finger around the rim of his cup.

“Why were you there?”

Mycroft lifted his gaze, stirred from his musings. “There?”

“Last night.” Lestrade glanced worriedly at Mycroft. “At the crime scene. Why… Why were you there?”

“Ah.” Mycroft straightened his spine. He’d bent the truth already, no harm in further confounding the issue. “Quite simply, Sherlock is due to be released from the clinic in two week’s time. I felt it pertinent you be made aware before he uses his new found freedom to upset your expanded responsibilities.”

Lestrade gave a nod, rolling words around in his mouth before finally releasing them. “Is he… Good?”

“Better,” Mycroft offered. “Healthier now than he was. Good remains to be seen.” He hadn’t attempted to flee the facility this time. He’d regained the smallest and most essential amount of weight. He’d spent the time sharpening his claws against Mycroft, and would likely continue to do so. But he would continue, and that was the most important thing. “Imagine my surprise to find that you seem to lean towards a similar lack of self-preservation.”

Lestrade let out a bitter sounding laugh. “Yeah. I’m stupid that way.”

Mycroft frowned. That was not at all in keeping with what he’d expected and not in the least what he was implying. Lestrade was no fool. What he was doing was terribly unhealthy; and yet… “I don’t believe I said stupid,” he chided.

Lestrade sighed. “Yeah. I just… M’sorry if I was out of sorts. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.” He stared at the coffee cup, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. “I let it get to me. And… You… Were kind to look after me.”

“You excel in a career that is known to be stressful, distressing, and time consuming. I can empathize. However, I would ask you to consider taking a brief respite. Perhaps a long weekend.” He forced a smile. “Recharge, as it were. And consider nicotine patches.” 

Lestrade was startled from his reply as someone knocked on the doorframe. 

Mycroft didn’t bother to look over, gesturing one-handedly. “Just there at the island, Mr. Hicks.” The man nodded and laid a fresh drycleaning bag on the surface before disappearing as quickly as he came. “I believe,” Mycroft murmured, lifting his cup to his lips, “that those are your clothes.”

Lestrade swallowed visibly. “Right.” The chime was equally unsurprising for Mycroft, but Lestrade furrowed his brow. “Do I smell bacon?”

“Yes,” Mycroft rose from the table and retrieved the food from the oven. “Your breakfast.” He set the bacon sandwich on the table in front of Lestrade. “I suspect it has been an unnecessarily long amount of time since your last meal?”

Lestrade dipped his head as Mycroft sat again. “Yeah. I can’t really remember-” The creak from the corner of the kitchen had Lestrade startling again, a look of concern setting creases around his mouth as he stared.

Mycroft lifted a brow and half turned. Ah, yes. “That is my Uncle Rudy’s rocking chair. It… Does that from time to time.”

Lestrade watched it warily. “Does it?”

“The foundation of the house is sinking apparently,” he said dismissively. None of the architects or engineers had offered a reason or solution for the issue. Every time he brought out a level, it seemed just a hair more tilted in that corner especially. Irritating, but nothing so quick as to cause structural issues in his lifetime. “But it was Uncle Rudy’s favorite. I haven’t the heart to move it.”

A faint smile ghosted across Lestrade’s face and he managed to pull his eyes away from the rocking chair and back to Mycroft. For a moment, Mycroft paused, froze; pinned in place by the oddly affectionate expression in Lestrade’s deep brown gaze. “You old softy.”

Mycroft huffed. “Eat your sandwich. I must leave for Whitehall at half past, and if you’re not dressed, you’ll be out on the stoop regardless.”

Lestrade’s smile broadened, knowing and gentle. “Yeah, alright.” He took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hey, Mycroft?”

Mycroft. He had called him Mycroft. It was the first time without prompting, and Mycroft found himself blinking rather stupidly instead of answering. He shook himself internally. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

It was so honest. Genuine. Unabashed, earnest, and sincere. He actually felt a small blush bloom on his cheeks. Flustered. He was flustered by this man. It was becoming a recurrent problem. How absurd. He let himself fall back on manners as his brain struggled to regroup. “You’re welcome.”


	8. Chapter 8

It only took a month before Sherlock had apparently tormented Lestrade into taking a mental health day. Mycroft sighed heavily as Sherlock continued to pace, ranting and railing about Lestrade’s absence from the Yard. Normally, he would have circumvented the tantrum before it started, removed his brother from his office, distracted him with a puzzle at a non-classified level… Or referred him to Lestrade. This time, as aggravating as it was, Mycroft bore the brunt of Sherlock’s rage, because he was - for lack of a better word - well.

“It’s ridiculous!” Sherlock declared again. “Who phones in ‘sick’ on a Friday?!”

Mycroft tilted his head. Who indeed. “Sherlock, I realise the concept of boundaries is still quite indistinct for you, but within the working world, most people phone in on Fridays.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Lestrade isn’t most people.”

No. No, he was not. He was… Something else entirely. “Has it occurred to you, brother dear, that perhaps Detective Inspector Lestrade is actually unwell?”

“I saw him Wednesday. He was fine.”

“Illness can come on quickly,” Mycroft reminded him patiently. 

“If he’s so ill, why hasn’t he sought his GP?”

Mycroft took a measured breath. “Ignoring the incredible invasion of privacy that knowledge entails-”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, which Mycroft was sure was a scathing assessment of his own attention to privacy, whether or not he could hear it.

“- Perhaps he simply needed a day away from you.”

Sherlock flopped into the chair opposite him. “How could he do this to me? And on this weekend!”

Mycroft blinked. “Not to disabuse you of any unusual notions, but most, if not all Fridays happen to precede a weekend.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s a bank holiday.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“That makes it a  _ long _ weekend,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“For some.” Mycroft hadn’t indulged in a long weekend in years. Weekends, as a concept, remained rather nebulous in his line of work. Holidays were nearly unheard of. “All the more reason to be unwell on the Friday,” he smiled blandly. If someone deserved a few days away from Sherlock, it was Lestrade… Or himself, actually. Sherlock’s behaviour always seemed its worst around those who cared.

“But it’s Halloween!” Sherlock complained. And when Mycroft didn’t bother to acknowledge the unnecessary statement of fact, he continued. “It’s an unusually busy weekend for crime. Sunday should be wild! And people are so much more creative!”

“Your glee is noted. Perhaps one of the other detectives…”

“No one else will work with me!”

Mycroft sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What exactly do you think I can do about Lestrade being unwell?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock threw up his hands. “Just… Something. Anything. I am bored.”

“Would you not be willing to give the less upstanding citizens of our city the day to perpetrate this crime you are so keen to solve?” He folded his hands over his knee. “Perhaps, when Lestrade returns on Tuesday, he will have a vaster multitude of puzzles from which you could choose.”

“Ugh, dull.” Sherlock popped up out of the chair and headed for the door. “If I die of boredom this weekend, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Noted,” Mycroft picked up his pen and settled back over his papers. It was as much a dismissal as he was being dismissed. He tried not to flinch as Sherlock slammed the door in his wake, an unnecessary show of brattiness. That it wasn’t unexpected only added to the puerile nature of the action. Then again, Sherlock behaving in a predictable manner was nothing to scoff at. Mycroft was reasonably content that he would find some form of creative mischief to occupy his weekend and resume his torture of Lestrade come Tuesday.

That was all assuming that Lestrade was back to work on Tuesday.

Before he left the office on Friday, Mycroft made a few discrete inquiries at New Scotland Yard. It did appear that Lestrade had been in work on Thursday with a less than stellar countenance. His phone call in the morning had been appropriate and adequate. And given his rather clean record, and more importantly, blemish-free attendance throughout the majority of his career, it hardly warranted a raised brow.

He sent his interns to keep an eye on Lestrade’s flat for the weekend. It wasn’t stalking. It was simply monitoring. And by Monday morning’s barren report, Mycroft actually began to grow the slightest bit concerned. Lestrade hadn’t left his flat all weekend. Perhaps it was something that required, not his undivided, but more personal attention.

Before he could summon a driver, he received a flurry of messages: Lestrade had left his flat, Lestrade was walking down the street, Lestrade was… going to church? The image accompanying the update was not reassuring. He looked unwell. Proof positive that he was too unwell for work, clearly. Maybe remained too unwell. Certainly unwell enough that Mycroft was inclined to see for himself, in person, that Lestrade was managing.

It wasn’t difficult to place himself conspicuously on the walk between the church and Lestrade’s flat. It also wasn’t difficult to be there with adequate time, without needing to be long in the elements. It was dry, but bitter. Nonetheless, when Lestrade rounded the corner, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, he nearly collided with Mycroft.

Mycroft had a hand on his arm before he could stumble into the street. “Lestrade?”

“Wh-” The quick flash of panic receded. “Oh. Mycroft.”

It was a weak greeting, as far as greetings went. But it seemed to match the grey tinge to Lestrade’s face and the roughness of his voice. He looked tired, though borne of illness rather than the exhaustion Mycroft had been privy to previously. He smiled as politely and gently as possible. “Gregory. You have been ill.”

Lestrade huffed, shifting his weight away from the curb. He grimaced and gave a weak nod. “Been better. How’d you kno-oh… Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s smile melted into a wince. “He expressed his… displeasure.”

“And you?”

Mycroft raised a brow at the resignation in the question. “Myself?”

“You were just hanging out on my street? I know you don’t live around here.”

Ah. Well, perhaps a bit of truth. “I suspected you’d prefer to meet on the street than to find me in your sitting room.”

The expressions that played across his face were fascinating to watch as they settled into warm exasperation. “True. And I’m going to try to find that endearing, not horrifyingly creepy.”

“A noble endeavour.” Endearing. Mycroft? It was a word he’d never associated with himself and likely would never hear attributed again. He gestured along the expanse of the street. “I don’t wish to keep you out in the cold unduly. May I walk you home?”

There was an odd half smile that would have been more believable without the dark circles. “Go on then.”

“Tell me,” Mycroft kept himself closest to the road, keeping himself between Lestrade and the cars and other pedestrians as needed. “Church?”

Lestrade wet his lips, weaving unsteadily, awkwardly bumping Mycroft’s shoulder in an effort to avoid some unseen obstacle. “Catholic.”

“Of course.”

“We all have flaws, Mycroft.” He cast a wry smile up at him.

Mycroft hummed with amusement. “There is nothing wrong with acknowledging obligation.”

He hunched his shoulders up against a bitter wind, visibly fisting his hands in his pockets. “Nice to have a day to talk to my mum and my nan.” He dug out his keys. “This is…” he trailed off, noticing that Mycroft had stopped. “Of course you know.”

“Your address is not a particularly difficult piece of information to find.”

“Probably not.” Lestrade shook his head, trying not to smile at his feet. “Nice, Southwest facing flat.”

“And my drivers have returned you here in the past.”

Greg startled for a second, furrowing his brow at the dark sedan parked across the street. “Oh. Right. Yeah…”

Mycroft smiled fondly. “Please look after yourself. Your absence is noted.”

“Sherlock bothers you instead of me?”

“He does.”

“Fond.” Lestrade nodded. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“If you’re well.” Mycroft insisted. “Only if you’re well.”


	9. Chapter 9

November blurred quickly into December. And within the madness of the impending holiday shutdown and significant downturn in the weather, Mycroft rarely saw anyone beyond the confines of his office and the back corridors of Whitehall. He did manage to see Lestrade on a few separate and serendipitous occasions.

Of late, Mycroft had been running CCTV footage. Ostensibly, it was within his remit and under review for the sake of National Security. That it included one of the back alleyways surrounding the Met headquarters - in particular, a fire escape with the alarm disabled that allowed various personnel to prop it open with a brick while escaping for a much needed smoke break - was purely incidental. That it was one of Lestrade’s favorite places to sneak a cigarette was chance.

Frequently, Mycroft would have eight cameras on screen. He could expedite work this way, knowing instinctively when one needed to be examined in detail. So when the solid metal door pushed open and a familiar profile emerged into the shelter of too close buildings and haphazardly parked vehicles, that camera necessarily needed his undivided attention.

After a few months of surreptitious viewing, he had Lestrade’s breaks timed down to the second. He would emerge from the building, check that he wouldn’t disturb anyone or be disturbed, find a satisfactory patch of wall to lean back against, and light his cigarette. It was always a single one now, only when under strain. On the occasion that he was escaping at the close of an event or the end of an investigation, he would enjoy long pulls and slow streams of smoke, his shoulders incrementally lowering from their high tension position. On the occasion that he was grabbing a few seconds in a quieter space while still in the throes of intense activity, he would smoke almost absently, punching away at his mobile or pacing in quiet thought. On the very rare occasion that he was escaping Sherlock, he would plant himself in a corner that wasn’t visible from the door or up the road, sit low on his hunkers, and polish off a smoke as though the devil himself was looking for him. And on those exact occasions, Mycroft tended to text Sherlock, distracting him for short moments so Lestrade’s break could finish unmolested and undiscovered.

This time was different. This time, Lestrade was intent on bucking trends and throwing Mycroft for a loop, as he apparently was wont to do. Lestrade slammed out of the building with an agitated stride that barely stopped for the wall he approached. He frowned, hands on his hips, glaring at nothing and talking animatedly. Pity the angle of the camera didn’t allow Mycroft to lip read. It was a lecture of sorts, a tirade, a rant that required gestures and crossed arms and frowns. Then it stopped with a shake of the head, a heaved sigh, a wave of a dismissal and tired slump against the wall. When the cigarette appeared, there were words muttered around the filter. Then he closed his eyes and dipped his chin and stilled. The odd nod. A yes here, a no there. A shrug and a grumble. The cold of December was writing itself across his features, his nose coloring, his shoulders hunching, the odd moment where he was forced to cup his hands together and blow into them for warmth.

After watching with a rapt, voyeuristic fascination, Mycroft allowed the concern to creep in. Lestrade should not be smoking. And he certainly should not be standing in the frosty evening with his coat open. He had been unwell. He had been out sick. He had nearly worked himself into an early grave - quite literally - and apologised for it. Quitting was the best idea. Perhaps then Lestrade would stop talking to himself, in the middle of the evening, on a clandestine smoke break. Mycroft sent a text.

_ May I remind you that smoking is a filthy habit and will likely be the death of you? _ _   
_ _ -MH _

He watched Lestrade startle, fish his phone from his pocket, frown at the screen then lift both eyebrows in surprise. After a moment, his head lifted, checking up and down the alleyway before finding the CCTV camera, mounted midway up the first storey wall. It was an oddly pinning look he gave the camera and Mycroft shifted from the other side of the screen.

_ Are you saying I should quit? _

_ -GL _

How infuriating. On screen, Lestrade’s mouth curled into a smile around the cigarette and he took an exaggerated drag, only to blow a plume of smoke directly at the camera.

_ Forgive me for wishing you a long and healthy life, Gregory. _ _   
_ _ -MH _

_ If I die from this cigarette, I’ll stick around long enough to haunt you with a chorus of You Were Right wails. Stop spying on me. There’s gotta be better ways to waste taxpayer money. _ _   
_ _ -GL _

Mycroft bit back a chuckle. As far as he was concerned, this was neither a waste, nor was there a better way for him to spend his immediate time.

_ Nicotine patches have been proven very effective. _ __   
_ If you continue talking to yourself in shadowy alleyways, I shall have you locked up for your own good. _ _   
_ __ -MH

Lestrade’s amused expression faded into a hard, blank glare. He dropped the cigarette, toed it out against the asphalt, gave the camera a two-finger salute, and disappeared back into the building. Mycroft frowned. That had not progressed at all as he had predicted. Not at all.

The subsequent and advantageous run-in was Sherlock’s fault. And while Mycroft was rather loath to feel grateful for his brother’s antics, this one would almost deserve a heartfelt thank you. Almost. Actually earning one was far more difficult than anyone imagined. More important than gratitude was Mycroft’s desperate need to apologise. A glib comment without thought to context - a rare blunder on Mycroft’s part when he hadn’t been thinking, which was another bizarrely singular occurrence.

Mycroft hadn’t routinely interfered with Sherlock’s penchant for well-meaning mischief. Rather, he preferred to maintain a healthy distance from the inevitable fallout of an interpersonal relationship detonating. For reasons beyond rationality, none of this applied to Lestrade.

Thankfully, Sherlock creating chaos at the Tower of London fell well within Mycroft’s remit and he arrived to find a very exasperated Lestrade, standing firmly on Tower Wharf, arms crossed, with a grim expression on his face. Sherlock was pointedly ignoring Lestrade’s previous shouting, in favor of continuing his precarious climb across the top of Traitors Gate. Lestrade flinched and took an uncomfortable step back, edging towards the Thames. When he finally spared a glance away from Sherlock and his eyes landed on Mycroft, relief and irritation creased his face in equal measure.

Mycroft took the lack of profane gesture as tacit permission approach. “Please tell me we’ve not resorted to Governmental sanctioned hangings again?”

He thought, perhaps, Lestrade grimaced. “Believe it or not, no one’s been killed… yet.”

Mycroft lifted a brow. The threat was clearly aimed at his brother, though, from his tone, Lestrade was clearly still upset by their last interaction. “What might I do to ensure that ‘yet’ becomes a full stop, Gregory?”

The corner of Lestrade’s face pulled and he shifted oddly, not fully facing Mycroft. “Your twat of a brother is going to fall into the moat. And you know what? He’ll deserve it. But he’s upsetting the ravens, and this is a protected historical site, and I don’t think I can handle the paperwork.”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Do we know why he’s risking a putrid bath?”

“Does it matter at this point?”

“Perhaps not.” Mycroft divided his attention between Sherlock and Lestrade. “You were called to circumvent a robbery. I doubt there is risk of him actually stealing anything.”

Lestrade glanced at the crowd that had gathered and covered his face with his hand. “Christ.”

Mycroft set a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, lifting it as he startled violently. “Apologies.”

He took a steadying breath and shook his head. “There’s… An audience. You’re right. He can’t rob anything important right now.”

“May I… Offer an opportunity?”

Lestrade eyed him cautiously, the grim determination Mycroft had seen through CCTV blending with a reserved hope. “And what’s that?”

He was going to suggest having Sherlock tased. Perhaps a remote sniper. Expedite the inevitable plummet into Thames water. But something had in Lestrade’s gaze had him reconsidering. He had already blundered into the hard edge of Lestrade’s temper; it wouldn’t do to repeat the mistake. “There are a number of constables here. You are not needed on scene.”

Lestrade crossed his arms tightly and huffed out a laugh. “Ta.”

“You mistake me.” Mycroft held up a hand in surrender. “I’m not suggesting you are unnecessary, simply too senior to waste on petty crime.”

He twitched, forcing a half-smile. “Flattery…”

“I owe you an apology; allow me to take you to dinner.” He watched Lestrade lean towards acceptance. He would say yes. He wanted to.

He groaned. “Paperwork.”

Crushing disappointment. “Of course,” Mycroft tilted his head in concession. He had wanted to. It was a small victory. “May I offer you a means of conveyance back to your office?”

Lestrade spared a final glance at Sherlock, at the constables and sergeants, at the tourists and the Towers. He set his jaw. “Yeah. Go on.”

“After you.” He followed a half step behind Lestrade. Watching curiously as his hands tucked into his pockets, his shoulders curling, his gait steady but purposefully weaving at odd intervals. Perhaps it was the cobblestone. Mycroft opened the door of the car for Lestrade, raising a brow at Sherlock who responded with a horrified snarl. His shoe slipped from the damp metal and he nearly fell into the water below. It was a lovely image upon which to depart as Mycroft slid into the car and closed the door with an authoritative click.

Lestrade shifted against his seat, sighing in relief as the car pulled away. “This may be the poshest leather…”

“I see no need to be any more uncomfortable while besieged in London traffic.” Lestrade’s brow shot up and Mycroft smirked. “Nor should you.”

“You said you wanted to apologise.”

Mycroft tilted his head. He did. With more than a short lift across the river. He wanted to apologise profusely, atone for ages. “What I texted you was careless. Glib and garrulous. I should have considered my words, and I regret the error.”

“Why?”

Mycroft blinked. “Why?”

“Why do you regret it?”

He took a long, steady breath in. “I regret upsetting you. I regret that it was a cruel comment. Knowing that your grandmother-”

“Oh, sod off.”

Mycroft snapped his mouth shut. It had been an incredibly long time since someone had told him to ‘sod off.’

Lestrade gave him a steady glare. It wasn’t angry or raw, just disapproving. Unsettling and disarming with uncomfortable ease. “You’re sorry that you made a twatty comment showing how horrifyingly invasive you actually are. And you’re worried that I’m going to put it down to bad breeding.”

Mycroft felt his face flush.

“And now you’re about ten seconds from defaulting to the Royal ‘We’ and this all would have been fine if you didn’t go about nosing into my whole life for no good reason.”

“Sherlock’s well-being is every reason,” he objected instantly.

Lestrade’s eyes flicked over his face, and against all odds, a wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me you didn’t offer me dinner to keep me from throwing him in holding for the night.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“He’s gonna end up there anyway.” Lestrade’s brow quirked, amused. “And he’ll make at least three constables cry. And I’m not letting him out until morning.”

He was serious. Fondly serious about the entire ordeal. And Mycroft found himself falling in line with it as well. “Do you have a number of constables you happen to dislike allocated to the task at hand?”

Greg bit down on a grin. “I do, yeah.”

“Well, at the very least there’s that.” Mycroft watched the front of New Scotland Yard roll into view as the car stopped. “I do apologise,” he offered quietly.

Lestrade flashed a genuine and soft smile, patted Mycroft’s knee in clear physical affection, and pushed open the door to the car. “Take me to dinner sometime and I’ll probably forgive you.”

The door closed before Mycroft could respond and he stared after Lestrade. Mycroft was a diplomat. He was artful and clever with words and conversation. He was skilled with interrogation. He could ease someone into betraying their own mother and kept vaults worth of national secrets in his head. And in this moment, he couldn’t be sure if Lestrade had been flirting with him.

Two days before the New Year, Mycroft attended one of the annual social requirements of his position. It was calling itself a Gala this time - this year. What it chose to call itself and what it appeared as in reality were two completely different phenomena. Nonetheless, he found himself in one of his lesser tuxedos, casually and stealthily engaging and disengaging with people who would likely forget the encounter come the next week. However, the information gleaned, the promises secured, and alliances forged would be recollected at the precise time Mycroft required. It was mostly worth the headache the four hours of people and socializing would inflict on his person.

He managed two and a half hours before the unbearable dullness of each and every conversation had merged with the blandness of bargain champagne and forced him from the overly stuffy ballroom and out onto the bracingly bitter, night air. He made it two steps from the deliveries door before his mobile vibrated in his pocket. Lord, can a man breathe? He connected the line without a word.

“You promised me four hours, Mycroft.”

He sighed loudly. It was the only way to assure himself that the accompanying eye roll would be understood.

“Do not, for a moment, think that I did not see you creeping away.”

“I have simply stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. It is unbearably warm and it wouldn’t do to swoon in the middle of small talk with the ambassador.” Perhaps if he was candid enough, he’d be allowed a five minute reprieve. Frankly, he was staying outside for ten minutes regardless. And should that not be acceptable, they could try to drag him in, but it would be kicking and screaming like a toddler mid-tantrum. If they were to stoop so low as to twist his arm, he’d sacrifice his dignity for their own embarrassment.

“The meeting is going ahead in the Orchid room. I expect you there.”

“Of course,” he murmured smoothly. The line disconnected and he barely suppressed another sigh as he replaced the phone in his pocket. Ten minutes. Then he would return, collect himself, and allow the pinkness of cold to escape his face before the meeting. He would leave following. This is why he hated the holidays. All the glad-handing and faux cheerfulness, forced socialisation and excess.

A familiar huff of a laugh came from somewhere over his shoulder. Mycroft turned to see Lestrade, dressed in a well-fitted tux, bow tie undone around his neck, top button scandalously open, loitering in the recess beside the door. The cherry of his cigarette glowed a pleasant orange, momentarily illuminating his face, before he sighed the smoke out and grinned. “Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector…” He had not expected to see him this evening. This close to the New Year. The Met was on skeletal staff with a busy CID and notorious overtime bills. And if he didn’t look as though he was made for that tuxedo.

“Oh boy,” Lestrade’s brows inched up as he ashed the cigarette down by his hip. “Back to that? I must have done something wrong.”

Teasing. Playful. Mycroft felt the heat inch up into his cheeks. There was a mischievous glint in the man’s eyes and he was going to torture Mycroft over the blunder in etiquette. Horrifyingly unfair, given how unbearably attractive he looked. “Nothing of the sort,” he managed finally. “Forgive me; I have spent the evening in a number of superficial conversations, none of which are at all appealing. I simply failed to…” He frowned at that, searching for an adequate rationale. “Recognise an ally in the political sea.”

“You know you can just say you’re glad to see me.”

Lestrade had closed his teeth around his lower lip and was looking up through his lashes. It was… Coy. Devastating. And when had Mycroft managed to halve the distance between them? He felt an answering smile ghost across his face. “I am, I assure you, quite glad you are here.”

“Aw,” he flashed another grin and offered up the half-consumed cigarette. “Fancy a go?”

Mycroft had to forcibly remind himself that Lestrade was referring to the cigarette. Was offering a smoke. That he hadn’t been suggesting anything salacious. “I will deeply regret this tomorrow.”

Lestrade looked unrepentant. “Sign of a good night out.” His eyes didn’t leave Mycroft until the cigarette had been returned.

“Perhaps.” Mycroft blew out a stream of smoke. “I often find myself regretting these evenings regardless of my own choices.” He forced a smile that he definitely was no longer feeling.

“Sign of bad company,” Lestrade offered.

“Or too much.” Five minutes. He had wasted five minutes on small talk with the only good company he’d find. That he’d enjoy. “You have found your escape just as well.”

“What happened to ‘smoking will kill you’?” The grin was back, a scandalous, wicked expression.

“A preferred demise over death by polite conversation.” Mycroft sighed. He would have to return soon. It would be dragging himself away. “How exactly have you found yourself here?”

“Short straw,” Lestrade muttered. “Rather’d’ve been on duty. But apparently someone from the Met had to be here.”

“And,” Mycroft lifted a brow. “Here?” He gestured to the deliveries door.

“Oh, you know… Loitering. Grabbing a breath of fresh air. Ruining the air for everyone around me.”

Mycroft smirked. “Were you eighteen, I’d assume you were drinking from a flask and planning to desecrate the ballroom.”

“Who says I haven’t been?” Oh wasn’t that an image. “I’ll have to re-do my bow tie before I go back in and everything.” He gestured at his collar before wrinkling his nose. As if Mycroft hadn’t noticed the visible patch of skin. The open button. The way his throat moved as he spoke. The gorgeous space under his jaw that was demanding attention as he tilted his head back to exhale cigarette smoke into the London, night sky. “You have to go back in there? Or are you done for the night?”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “Far from over. I regret not booking a room for the evening. Traffic will be abysmal when I finally leave. Yourself? Are you staying the night?”

The twinkle was back. The teasing tone resumed. “Oh yeah. Presidential suite.” He grinned then sobered. “Nah. I don’t really do historic, landmark... Posh. ‘Course I’m not bloody staying here.”

If Mycroft had booked a room, he could have invited Lestrade up. For a nightcap. For coffee. For definitely not coffee. What a terrible oversight. “Pity.”

“Pity is that I’m working the next few nights,” Lestrade muttered, then seemed to think better of it, the easy grin back on his handsome face. He stubbed the cigarette out against the brick next to his thigh and flicked the butt down the sidewalk. He rolled his shoulders, fixed the open button, and deftly re-tied his bowtie. “Sometimes, it’s nice to just watch the fireworks for fun, not be chasing down pickpockets.”

Mycroft couldn’t decide what was more distracting: Lestrade as he had been, scandalously dressed down and smoking, or Lestrade put back together, smooth and polished. He must have been devastating in a uniform. “Sadly, I am often working as well. As I am this evening - to which I ought to return.”

“You,” Lestrade straightened his cuffs and brushed down the back of his trousers as he pushed off the wall, “Are always working.” He reached up, fingering the lapel of Mycroft’s jacket. “And it’s bad for you.”

Mycroft’s throat went dry as he struggled not to sway towards Lestrade. This was friendly grooming. Replacement of armor. Building each other up to go back into the gala, with the people, and the noise, and the chaos. “Is it?”

“Someone smart told me that once.” The gentle fingers curled in the fabric.

“Oh?”

Lestrade’s elbow flexed, the pull on the jacket steady and inevitable. And Mycroft had to bend or risk rending the fabric. “Sometimes, the clever ones are just incredibly stupid.”

It shouldn’t have been a shock. Mycroft Holmes was nearly impossible to surprise. For a moment, the only thing his brain registered was ‘Soft’ and ‘Hot’, before it occurred to him that the taste of smoke should not be sexy. But then it wasn’t just smoke. It was well aged scotch, it was dark chocolate, it was that fantastic looking brie crudite that he’d been loath to eat for the richness, and it was all borne on Lestrade’s lips. Then it was gone. Lost to the chill of disappearing contact and politely removed body heat. Mycroft blinked.

Lestrade’s smile was lazy and pleased. “Happy New Year, Mycroft.” Then he was slipping away.

Oh. He couldn’t hide the blush. He couldn’t regain the lost moment where he could have returned the embrace. He couldn’t push Lestrade up against the wall, neck like teenagers outside of a political gala and damn the consequences. But he wanted to. He cleared his throat. “Happy New Year, Gregory.”

Lestrade winked and backed through the doors, returning to the chaos within.

It was the last good day Mycroft had in a very long time.


	10. Chapter 10

It was mid-afternoon. Mycroft was aware that it was mid-afternoon because he was firmly entrenched in the weekly mid-afternoon briefing, with the routine and horrifyingly dull ministers who were unlikely to retain their posts for much longer. He felt the first low vibration of a text to his mobile against his ribs from where it sat in his breast pocket. It was not uncommon for him to receive texts, nor to receive them during the inanity of the habitual nonsense. Were it an important issue, he’d receive a phone call.

His phone vibrated again.

And a third time.

His hand was reaching for his pocket, willing to deign to glance at the screen, to imply to those in the room that this meeting was not worth his time, when the door opened. His assistant raised one brow, leaning halfway through the opened door and simply said, “Sir.”

Mycroft Holmes was not a man who outwardly startled, nor one who could be hurried or hassled, but his mind connected the dots between the texts and appearance of his assistant, and his stomach dropped like a rock.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, rising from the table and striding towards the door. He waited for it to shut in his wake before reading the three, short messages.

_ SOS _

_ Now Sherlock _

_ Vauxhall ardhs asap _

He sucked in a sharp breath. Lestrade was not prone to hyperbole - not over text, not when contacting Mycroft. He recalled the last time Lestrade had phoned. The panic. The desperate message. The four days in the ICU. The weeks of rehabilitation. The pain and exhaustion of the healing. The impact on his work, his reputation. He tore his eyes from his mobile. “Car.”

“Ready downstairs.” She handed him his coat, accepted his files, and gave a nod. “Your schedule will be cleared for the day. Let me know if you need…”

Need days? Need weeks? He swallowed and slid his arms into his coat. “Thank you.”

London flew past in a blur of well known, well worn streets, bundles of people, and a cacophony of sound that Mycroft barely registered. It was simultaneously the fastest and slowest drive he could remember. After three failed attempts at ringing Lestrade, and one, likely regrettable, attempt to reach Sherlock, he phoned his assistant. She was expecting the call.

“It appears that Lestrade is not ignoring your calls, but his phone is unable to receive them at this time. Believe me, I’ve tried as well. I’m pulling the CCTV in the area for the past two hours.”

“Where is Sherlock?” He couldn’t bring himself to ask  _ how _ his brother was faring, just where. Was he still at the Arches? Would he need to reroute the car? With Lestrade out of communication, how would he know where to go, who to find?

“Still with Lestrade. Records show that your brother phoned Lestrade thirty minutes ago. They had a seven minute phone conversation, half of which Lestrade conducted from his moving car. Lestrade phoned an ambulance before texting you.”

“They are both still there?”

“From what I can see, Sir. Yes.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, gathering himself as they neared. “Keep this line open.”

“Of course.”

The scene was chaos. Noise and lights and more people than Mycroft had expected. In an act of stupidity and borderline hysteria, he launched himself from the car before it had managed to stop completely. Information and data hit him like a tidal wave and he nearly lost his breath with the sheer volume of input. Unmarked, BMW, lights on, door open: Lestrade’s. Two panda cars, doors closed, empty, lights off. Fire truck, idling, ready to leave. Ambulance, lights on, doors open, empty as of yet. Paramedics and fire brigade, working together over a body, full CPR. There were constables. There were gawkers. Shouts and doors slamming. He pressed his eyes closed and took a deep and steadying breath. Sherlock. Find Sherlock.

“Sherlock, stop!”

He opened his eyes - Lestrade. Near the paramedics. Silver hair glinting in the alternating emergency lights. Acting as a human barrier between the body and his brother. The relief was instantaneous and overwhelming. Mycroft felt his knees sag. Alive. He was alive. And breathing. Shouting even.

“Get out of my way! I have to-” Sherlock launched himself at Lestrade, trying to push past him. Physically steamroll him. And when Lestrade caught him with hands on his shoulders, Sherlock wound up to punch him.

Sherlock could be volatile at the best of times. He was sneaky and uncontrollable when he was agitated. He could fight; both in the proper, rule abiding, above board, formal sense and in the scrappy, biting, below the belt, no holds barred way. Mycroft had engaged his brother in both manners before, and was desperately sure Lestrade was about to find out exactly how fiercely potent an enraged Sherlock could be. And he was too far away to stop it. With a desperate glance at his driver, Mycroft started towards the pair at speed.

“You have to stop!” Lestrade barked again.

It had only been a moment, a flick of his eyes away, but somehow, he’d missed the entire altercation. Lestrade had Sherlock in a bear hug, back to chest, his slim wrists pinned to his sternum as Lestrade held him firmly turned away from the scene.

“Sherlock, please!” His voice cracked as Sherlock seemed to fold forward in panic, shaking in Lestrade’s grip. “You have to let them do their job.”

Mycroft skidded to a stop, not more than three feet from them, panting. Lord, was he truly that out of shape? “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and pleading before he could school the expression on his face. Then… he didn’t. He looked wildly, beseechingly at Mycroft. “He wouldn’t. He didn’t do it to himself!”

Lestrade’s face was grim. Grey and drawn and somber in the face of Sherlock’s distress. His hold more functioning to keep Sherlock upright than restrained. “Let them help him,” he murmured. “You have to let them try.”

Sherlock was going to explode. Mycroft could see the tantrum building through the emotional storm of whatever was going on and he didn’t need the specifics to predict the vast expanse of likely collateral damage. It was the diplomatic decision, but also the pragmatic one. “Come with me, little brother,” Mycroft held out a hand, offering Sherlock an out. A sounding board and whetstone. He could rant and rail against Mycroft instead of the world at large. He braced for the fight.

Lestrade whispered something in Sherlock’s ear as he released him with a gentle nudge towards Mycroft. What little color he had left, drained from Sherlock’s face, his expression wounded. Lestrade swallowed hard, heartsick and unyielding in his gaze. Mycroft set a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, guiding him towards the car. That he went willingly was uncomfortable, foreboding.

Sherlock flung himself onto the bench seat and curled up on his side, turning his back to Mycroft where he sat across from him.

Mycroft shut the door gently and glanced out the window. Lestrade was still standing where they’d left him, head down and his palm clamped firmly over his mouth. Mycroft couldn’t wed this specter with the playful, flirting man who kissed him outside of galas. And it ached like a bone-deep bruise. He closed his eyes and tried to gather himself as his driver pulled away from the chaos and towards the townhouse.

“Sherlock?” The only response he received was hunched shoulders and a tighter curl into the seat back. He sighed. Sullen and silent would be better than physical and shouting. He didn’t want to upset the fragile quiet with phone calls, so for once, he sent text after text, coordinating, making necessary arrangements, and acquiring information. “Whenever you’re ready, Sherlock,” he said softly. “I will be here.”

The snort did not bode well for communication.


	11. Chapter 11

It was after dark before Mycroft felt he had any sort of grasp on the situation at hand. And none of his slow-growing comprehension was gained through the aid of his brother, who had stormed from the car into the guest room and slammed the door. 

Sherlock hadn’t come out. Mycroft only hoped he would squirrel the food tray into the room when no one was looking. And actually eat it. Experience dictated that he leave Sherlock alone. He would emerge when he was ready and not before.

Without Sherlock’s assistance, Mycroft had gathered that the previously unidentified gentleman requiring Lestrade’s intervention was one Edward Vaughn - Eddie V to known associates. He had been a lower to middle tier dealer out in Epping, though why he was anywhere near the Vauxhall Arches was unclear.  _ Had been _ . Edward Vaughn had not survived to reach the wards in the hospital. Mycroft’s assistant was expediting the pending post mortem, and Mycroft was deeply suspicious of the entire situation.

Backdated CCTV footage of the surrounding area had been collected, and Mycroft had scoured every frame. The narrative, as Mycroft could piece together, involved Sherlock meeting the late Mr. Vaughn and holding a conversation. Midway through the discussion, while becoming heated, Mr. Vaughn collapsed. Sherlock phoned, ostensibly, Lestrade, who arrived quickly and began administering basic life support. The emergency services arrived and relieved Lestrade. Lestrade had to forcibly remove Sherlock when he began to hinder the resuscitation efforts. Mycroft arrived. They departed. The ambulance departed. The remainder of the emergency services departed. Lestrade sat on the ground, his back against the rear wheel of his car, fingers in his hair, head tucked down into his knees.

Lestrade had sat like that for twenty-seven minutes, according to the time stamps. He hadn’t smoked. He hadn’t moved. Just sat. There was no way his jeans and jumper were warm enough to fend off the January chill. Then it clicked. Unless the Met had recently and severely overhauled their dress code, Lestrade had not come from work - he had been at home. And instead of a likely much needed day off, Sherlock had summoned him to… a disaster. It was no wonder he looked grim. He could have fobbed him off, told Sherlock to call someone else, had Sherlock ring an ambulance, left him to fend for himself. And yet… 

Mycroft rang for a car.

Forty minutes later, Mycroft wondered if he should feel more uncomfortable seeking admission to Lestrade’s flat. Clearly, his presence was necessitated by the bags he carried. He had a distinct and urgent reason for his attendance. And yet, Lestrade’s flat seemed to represent an ill-defined boundary, a final bastion of privacy for someone whom the Holmes family had dragged rather ruthlessly into public alliance. For all the social niceties he was willing to ignore on behalf of his brother, Mycroft truly wished he could have phoned ahead. Then again, that was much of the reason he was there.

The outer door to the block of flats was mostly unlocked. The catch degraded with time and use to the point that a firm twist and small amount of inward force was enough for it to open under Mycroft’s shoulder. He knocked when he reached Lestrade’s flat - it was, after all, the polite thing to do. For a long and quiet moment, Mycroft worried he’d need to knock again, or seek another avenue of admission. It was possible that Lestrade was asleep - though it wasn’t quite so late. He could be in the shower. He could be out somewhere else, altogether not at home. Other than his car parked on the street, Mycroft had no way to actually confirm his location. In the throes of that very small crisis of etiquette, the door opened without another knock or the application of lockpicks.

He froze. It was entirely possible that there existed, in this world, more than one Greg Lestrade. Multiple versions of the man that endeavored to leave Mycroft wrong footed every time he met with him. Professionally amused. Defensively edgy. Calmly furious. Wryly entertained. Grievously terrified. Exhaustedly overextended. Sardonically chagrin. Tentatively recovering. Righteously indignant. Placidly ribbing. Gorgeously coquettish. Grimly determined. Softly comfortable.

He dismissed the idea in its entirety. There was only one Greg Lestrade. Mycroft simply hadn’t managed to appreciate the whole of him. And he was only beginning to try. For example, Greg Lestrade, when ensconced in his own home, wore well-loved, vintage, band tee-shirts and soft, tartan, flannel pajama pants… and socks.

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft?”

He snapped himself back to the issue at hand and cleared his throat. “Gregory.” He kept his smile small. Polite but unthreatening. “I come bearing gifts.” He held up the bags.

Greg’s eyes flit from the shopping bag to the obvious take-away and back to Mycroft. “Is that from the curry place just up the road?”

Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I have it on good authority that you’re fond of their rogan josh.”

“Mycroft, if I find out that you dedicated government resources to hack my deliveroo account…”

Mycroft let the genuine smile stretch across his face. “I assure you, it was nothing so involved as hacking. I simply walked in and asked for your usual order.” He lifted the bag of food in offer. He wasn’t above bribing his way into Greg’s flat.

Greg’s eyes filled with exasperation as he stepped aside, letting him pass. “Right. Before Inky makes a break for it. He’s an absolute devil for it.”

“Pardon, Inky?”

“My cat.” Greg took the food and headed for the kitchen, abandoning Mycroft in the entryway.

A cat? Greg Lestrade had a cat. How strange. He closed the door with a muted click.

“And are you eating too?”

“I would never presume,” he murmured to cover his surprise. He had hoped for a conversation; sharing a meal was beyond tempting.

Both of Greg’s brows went up as he gave Mycroft a knowing look. “Uh huh. Is that a yes?”

He glanced towards the kitchen. “I… Thank you.”

Greg gave a nod, “Good. Uh… I’ll just plate this. Make yourself at home.”

It was an invitation courting disaster. Mycroft knew his own tendencies towards possession. And once given permission, he would never leave. He let his eyes wander the flat. It was far larger than he had originally assumed, though perhaps that was a trick of the colours and design. The walls were a pleasant Athens grey, with deep rhino-blue accents along the molding, and a quirky, almost robin’s egg blue ceiling. The combination worked in spite of itself and lent the space a feeling of calm. Dark, hardwood floors and simple, neat lines for the furnishings left the otherwise scantily adorned space to seem cosy. The large mirror opposite the door gave the impression of far more depth than existed, and he couldn’t help but notice the horseshoe over the door frame. Catching himself loitering in the entryway, Mycroft brought himself to hang his coat and venture further into the flat, perching on the edge of the large sofa. 

“You know,” Greg said rather flatly, his back still to the main room. “You could have just called.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and hummed a negative sound. “Unfortunately, I could not.”

“You know very well that you can. You’ve managed it before.”

“Yes, and with my numerous attempts it became apparent that your mobile has met with some sort of unfortunate accident.”

“What?”

Mycroft held the small shopping bag by the tips of two fingers, dangling it over the back of the sofa for him. “Your phone is broken, Gregory. I have sourced a replacement.”

The brief, confused expression was adorable. When Mycroft gave him a single confirmatory nod, he strode over to the silver, catch-all bowl beside the door and pulled his mobile out. “Ah, bollocks. I thought this was too quiet.” He shook his head at the cracked casing and shattered screen. It wouldn’t turn on. “Sorry. I didn’t... I didn’t know.”

Mycroft held the bag out further. “I am aware.” It had probably occurred when he was attempting resuscitation. Hard pavement and high adrenaline. 

Greg finally accepted the bag. “Is this a whole new phone?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. It was far from an absent mannerism, but he wasn’t in the mood to debate its necessity with Greg this evening. “It is a newer model from the one you, up until today, possessed.”

“Do I have to check it for booby traps?”

Exasperating. “No. There is enhanced security, but nothing untoward. Same number.”

“It’s charged and everything,” Greg grinned as it powered on. “Well now I have to let you stay for dinner.”

“Oh dear. How dreadful.”

Greg beckoned him over to the small kitchen table and returned a moment later with full plates of food. Mycroft had ensured there was plenty to eat, particularly were he invited to stay; but also should he only have been allowed to make the peace offering and depart, Gregory would have enough food for the following night. Instead, he partook in the surprisingly pleasant take-away and they ate in a companionable silence.

Finally, Greg wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair. “Not that I had much else in for food or anything on,” he finished the thought with a complex expression.

“I am aware you’ve had a… trying day,” Mycroft offered sincerely.

“And you could have had one of your minions drop in food.”

He hid a wince behind a well timed blink. “Perhaps.” He had no intention of divulging his hope of simply spending time, that he’d needed to put his mind at ease after watching so much horrible CCTV feed, that for whatever reason, Greg Lestrade had spent his day off minding Sherlock… again, and Mycroft needed to apologise. “However, Sherlock is refusing to speak to me.”

Greg blew out a heavy breath. “Right.” He grimaced. “Maybe… Maybe we should,” he waved a hand at the sofa. “I’d offer a drink, but I’ve only got tea. Or coffee, I suppose. Water?”

He should have brought a bottle of wine. Or scotch. “Whatever you prefer is acceptable.”

Greg gave him a wry smile. “PG Tips is it?”

He was teasing. How delightfully torturous. “If that’s your predilection.”

“Big word, that.”

Mycroft hummed. It was entirely on purpose. “It is.”

Greg gave a nod at the sofa and Mycroft acquiesced, delicately sliding his chair back from the table and hesitating with the gritty sensation. He glanced at the floor. Salt? Greg leaned over the table and into Mycroft’s space, eyeing the mess. “Must have spilled some earlier.” When Mycroft raised a brow, he shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly expecting company. G’wan. I’ll make us some tea.”

When Greg rejoined him, it was with two steaming mugs of sweet smelling tea and a small shadow twisting between his ankles. “Black chai. I put in some honey, hope you don’t mind.”

“Lovely.” He tried not to startle as the black streak leapt onto the cushion between them, blinking large green eyes at him. “This is Inky?” He held out fingers for the cat to consider. They were clever enough creatures that he respected their autonomy. After a moment, a furred black cheek was pressed into his hand and Mycroft gently scratched the cat’s chin.

“Huh.” Greg tucked himself in the far corner of the sofa.

“Hm?”

As soon as Greg stopped shifting, Inky found a comfortable position, curled in the bend of his knee. Greg stroked him a few times. “He… Generally, he doesn’t like… visitors.”

“Perhaps he has good taste.” Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at Greg’s amusement with his comment.

“You…” Greg wrapped both of his palms around his mug. “Wanted to ask something about today?”

Mycroft could see him drawing in, bracing himself for the unpleasantness after what had been a reasonably agreeable meal. That they were in his flat, that Greg couldn’t escape with ease wasn’t lost on Mycroft. “Did I?” 

Greg rolled his eyes but a flicker of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. “You wanted to know something.”

Astute. He did. He wanted to know rather everything about Greg Lestrade. How he’d found a flat with a functional fireplace. Why he wore Blackwatch tartan with a Ramones tee shirt. Why he had a vase with fresh heather and lavender on the coffee table, but no photos or knick-knacks on any of his shelves. How did an officer of the Met survive without a few beers in the fridge and a bottle of good liquor for bad days? The cat… It had never occurred to Mycroft that he had a pet of any kind. Mycroft cleared his throat. “I assume you were not in work today.”

His face pinched. “No.”

“Sherlock called you.”

“He’s been…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He thinks there’s something going on with the drug dealers.” Mycroft blinked and Greg hurried to fill in the silence. “He’s clean. He is. I… He knows I won’t talk to him otherwise. It’s just… He called me in a panic. I’m not going to tell him it’s my day off.”

“Did you know the other man?”

“He’s dead,” Greg said flatly.

“He is.” He could acknowledge that. If Greg was aware, there was no reason Mycroft wouldn’t be.

He became suddenly and intensely interested in the swirls of his tea. “I mean… He was dead before…”

Oh. Mycroft filled in the uncomfortable ellipsis. Dead before the paramedics arrived. Dead before he had abandoned the resuscitation. Dead before Sherlock had thrown himself into Mycroft’s car. “You cannot possibly blame yourself.”

Greg lifted his gaze. He did. It was written across his face in clear and stark lines. Greg Lestrade felt responsible. 

“Gregory.” He also looked… sad. Perhaps at the loss of life. Perhaps with his seemingly endless well of patience for Sherlock. Perhaps the entire situation. Mycroft twisted to face him fully. “What did you say to Sherlock?”

He startled. “What? When?”

“You spoke to him. Before he relented and agreed to leave. What did you tell him?”

He glanced away, studying the hearth, the mantle, the neat lines of books on the shelf. “I told him to go home.”

Deflection. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely, but Mycroft was well versed in half-truths and misdirection. Mycroft set his mug on the table. “I see.” Greg flinched and Mycroft bit back a sigh. “Are you alright?”

Greg’s eyes snapped up again. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were alright,” Mycroft repeated patiently, shifting closer on the sofa. He looked pale, more so than he had when Mycroft arrived. There was a fine tremor running through his hands that was disturbing the surface of his tea. It was beyond discomfort with the conversation. “Only, what occurred today was deeply reminiscent of when you were forced to phone me…”

Greg swallowed.

“A large number of desperate things passed through my mind, and as a bystander to it for a second time, I can only imagine that you had a similar, if not more distressing experience.”

In spite of both hands on the mug, it was shaking, at risk of tea sloshing over the rim. Mycroft plucked it carefully from his grasp and placed it on the table as Greg watched.

“I am a difficult person to upset from my consistency. And if today left me unsettled, I am under no illusion that it was anything less than disquieting. As such, I ask again, are you alright?”

His head started to move, the hesitant beginning of a no, when he caught himself with a sharp breath. Inky purred loudly beneath his palm and what had been a glossy sheen was blinked away. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’m fine.”

And that was the difference between deflection and dishonesty. It was cold comfort that he was a poor liar and it stung reminiscently similar to rejection. “Of course.”

“He’s right,” Greg muttered, clearly calming himself by attending to the warm cat in his lap. Mycroft would move mountains to be able to do the same for him so simply. “Sherlock. I think. I just… They aren’t my investigations. And I don’t understand what he’s saying half the time.”

“Neither do I,” Mycroft admitted recklessly. This would require some of his attention. A dedication of resources. “Would you like them to be your investigations? Perhaps you haven’t enough to be doing?”

Greg snorted.

“I should leave you to rest. Your day off has been less relaxing than expected.” Mycroft contemplated the act of leaving. Allowing Greg the space to collect himself. To remain curled into the corner of his sofa with a much adored pet. To sleep. And rather than content, he felt undecided and brash. He didn’t want to leave. And he certainly didn’t want to leave Gregory in the darkened headspace he was currently occupying. “Incidentally, I believe you only said you’d forgive me if I took you  _ out _ for dinner.”

Greg lifted his eyes, grim weariness melting slowly away until he looked his age again. Younger, softer, and hopeful. “And do all of this again?” A hesitant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and he bit down on his lip. “Sounds terrible.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft felt the mirroring smile on his own face. “Desperate times and all that.” Desperate indeed. He felt himself leaning into Greg’s space. And when he didn’t pull away, Mycroft couldn’t stop himself. He only just realised he was doing it as his hand caught Greg’s chin, tilting it just that little bit higher. He had work. He had things to do. He needed his mind to function without distraction. And in order to do any of those things, it was absolutely imperative that he kiss Gregory then and there.

It was only a brush of lips, soft and chaste, intended to gentle and reassure. If asked, he’d stay the night. Spend hours simply holding him until the sun brought a fresh new day.

“Mycroft.”

If he was asked in that tone, the whispered plea against his lips, there would be nothing simple about the night. He drew back carefully. “Perhaps, if you were to find yourself free this Friday evening, I could take you out for dinner. Earn this costly absolution of yours.”

Greg slowly blinked, his face an open expression of tentative optimism. “Friday?”

“If available.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead and stood. He needed to leave. “I’ll call you, shall I?”

The smile that stretched across Greg’s face was warm and expectant. “Do.”


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft groaned. Dear Lord, his head was pounding. Throbbing in a discordant cadence to the chanting from nearby. Chanting? Muttering? Talking? His stomach lurched and he tried to breathe through the nausea before risking opening his eyes. Had he been out late? It didn’t feel precisely like a hangover. He wasn’t prone to indulging quite so liberally. Seemed an unlikely event. Sherlock, on the other hand, tended to induce brain splitting headaches. He’d been speaking to Sherlock, hadn’t he?

Sherlock had finally deigned to emerge from his room on Friday morning, ranting at Mycroft for the better part of an hour - though little sense was made - before storming off to, hopefully, his own flat. But even though Mycroft had spent a disproportionate amount of his day turning Sherlock’s words over and over in his head, it wasn’t the sort of nonsense that brought about migraines. Work had been a headache, but nothing so serious as to cause this agony either.

After work had been dinner. Out. With Gregory. An easy source of overindulgence, but in the end it had been a single glass of wine. Not even a bottle. Greg had a soda and lime. Something about… It was difficult to recall. However, now that he gave it thought, he’d never seen the man consume alcohol. Oh, he’d tasted of scotch at the gala. But…

Certainly, it hadn’t been the dinner. Or that single glass of wine. Escaping out the back of the restaurant to one of the Covent Garden side streets wasn’t alcohol fueled. Nor had been the impulse to push Gregory against the brick wall, snog in the dimly lit alcove like naughty teens. The hands on his hips, shoved up under his coat and jacket - exquisite. The dart of pain in his thigh, the fuzzy warmth, the blurred… Oh. No.

“Shut up. God, please. Shut up. All of you.”

Drugs. It was a drug hangover. It had been years since he’d experienced this type of sedative induced agony. The headache and nausea were standard fare. He had vertigo and myalgia to look forward to, and the photophobia would be dreadful. Perhaps that was why the sound was horrid too - it wasn’t, but he allowed himself a moment to believe it.

The aborted attempt to massage his temples was the final straw. Plastic, thick and snug around his wrist had them tethered to something behind his back, justifying the ache in his shoulders and the back of his neck. He would be able to cut them, given enough time. He knew how to free himself from any number of restrained positions, but it was the intent that rankled. He steadied his breath and forced himself to open his eyes.

“... san. E’rybody th’wanna go home. So…”

It was mercifully dark, artificial light bouncing off faded red brick from somewhere around more than one corner. The damp, putrid smell and echoed drip of distant water made him shiver. It was drafty, frigid. Hell, the cold, stone pillar at his back was bleeding through his coat. He was underground - that was instantly apparent. Underground, lashed to a pillar, and with company.

“... rock man groove and rat poison…” Gregory looked an appalling shade of grey-green, eyes pressed tightly shut. The small trickle of blood running from beneath his hairline had tracked under his jaw. And he was rocking slightly, humming. Mycroft blinked hard. Not humming, singing to himself. As Mycroft watched, Greg flinched, his whole body shuddering, and he started up again, louder. The song was vaguely familiar, if not slightly toneless - words ground out through clenched teeth.

“Greg?” Mycroft tried, his voice cracking with disuse and dryness. Lord, he hated being drugged. “Gregory?”

“They wanna sing all night long…” He whimpered, tucking down tighter, pressing his forehead to his knees. “... Solomon he n’vr lived round ‘ere…”

For as horrible as he felt physically, Mycroft was rapidly growing more alarmed. Greg was… Unwell? Terrified? Irreparably damaged, perhaps. It was a throwback: squatting in the mud and rain and apologising to everything within earshot; sitting on the floor of a hospital room, sick with fear over the well-being of whatever Sherlock was to him; leaning miserably against the side of a car on frozen pavement, staring at nothing with a haunted expression. Now singing to himself while bleeding and bound to a rusted pipe. 

“Greg.” He would not panic. No. Absolutely not. This was not an unsalvageable situation. Mycroft Holmes was an important man. He couldn’t vanish off the streets without consequences. His assistant would have already noted his absence. He had a tracker in his phone, and barring his ongoing possession of his phone, another GPS tracker in his ring. He was still wearing the ring. His fingers were clumsy with numbness, but he fumbled along the curl of the brick until he found a sharp edge and began grating the plastic ties against it.

They would be looking for him. They would find him imminently. The only reason they hadn’t arrived was likely their current depth and the patchwork tunnels of brick and stone. He would be fine. Gregory would be fine. If he would just stop singing to himself. “Lestrade!”

Greg’s shoulders stiffened and he blinked, staring owlishly at Mycroft. It took far longer than Mycroft liked for recognition to bloom in his eyes. He winced again, but lifted his head, resting it against the pipe at his back. “Mycroft?”

There was something wrong with his breathing. It was too fast. Tight even. Mycroft raked his eyes over Greg’s form. It was possible that he’d been mistreated. Mycroft had been unconscious for a rather indeterminable amount of time, but that was chemically induced. Lestrade had a head wound. Bruising high on the crest of his cheek. There was mud and dirt on the knees of his trousers. What would broken ribs add to the tally? What if his shoulder was dislocated? His forearm fractured? How hard would they have needed to kick him to cause internal bleeding? 

“I don’t know where we are, but there will-”

“Clerkenwell,” Greg cut across him at an unusual volume and closed his eyes tightly. “Clerkenwell… the old prison.”

He scanned the room, picking out details he’d unforgivably missed in his preoccupation with Gregory. Of course it was. The old wood. The brick and mortar. The pipes and disuse. He continued to grind the plastic against the coarse brick. “Regardless,” he willed Greg to open his eyes again. Look, just look at me. “My people will be here soon enough. We will not be here for much longer.”

Greg let out an uncomfortably high laugh. “As long as we’re still alive when they get here.”

“What?” 

Mycroft was pragmatic in conflict, not prone to sensational interpretation of situations. He may have a fondness for dramatics, if he were honest with himself about it, but not when it came to data. There were hard, incontrovertible facts. They had been taken and abandoned. There was no indication that anyone planned to return for them, to further the confrontation with an increased level of violence. Mycroft had no current security flags, no watchers, no alerts. This was an unprovoked attack on his person, and the Services would not stand for it.

“It’s where they’ve been dumping the bodies,” Greg hissed with a slow shake of his head.

“What?”

“They… Can’t you… Jesus, there are at least a dozen dead in the next room.” He groaned and winced. “It can’t be that much worse over here. Can’t you… I dunno, smell it?”

He could - somewhat vaguely. He had dismissed the slightly fetid air as due to staleness and subterranean dwellers reaching the end of their life-cycles. But his mind circled rapidly back to the beginning of Greg’s complaint. “They…” 

They. They? Mycroft racked his brain. Who are they? What ‘they’ would have risked a full frontal attack on the nation’s Security Services… Unless it wasn’t Mycroft at all. If it was a ‘they’ with an interest in Greg. He narrowed his eyes. No current investigations would encompass an ill defined they. There were no unsolved murders on Greg’s desk. The CID had been performing admirably. Even Sherlock’s associate had died of an overdose. The post-mortem had been clear on the concentration of illicit… Oh. Oh, he had been blind.

“Blackwell,” Mycroft said flatly.

The grunt from Greg was confirmation enough. Tony Blackwell - private businessman with expertise in import-export, upselling, and hostile takeover. He had been slowly amassing power in South London, but it had been well over a year since Lestrade’s team had any contact with him directly. Vaughn had worked for an alternative company, he could be considered a competitor. Sherlock had never patronised Blackwell’s cartel, was that a threat to his business? Perhaps Lestrade’s promotion in the face of his previous DI’s sudden and unexplained move to Manchester could be linked back to Blackwell’s escalation of sales. 

“You think Blackwell is making a move to expand his territory.”

“Has.” Greg’s shoulders heaved. “Already has.”

Mycroft frowned at the tight pinch of Gregory’s face, pulled harder on the ties, excoriating them with purpose. Already made his move? Connecting the dots created a wave of data that was almost overwhelming. “Your team interfered with Blackwell two years ago. You managed to close a shipping loophole that reduced his importation capabilities. From… Brazil… Joao? Sherlock worked on those investigations with you. He…” Mycroft froze. “Gregory. The night that Sherlock overdosed. Was that…”

Greg nodded and sagged, could no longer comfortably keep his head and shoulders up.

Mycroft grit his teeth hard enough to make his jaw creak. Sherlock, for all his recklessness and self-destructive behaviours, was not a fool. He had managed to titrate his own drugs for months, possibly years, without incident. And all it took was an unknown shift in concentration, an additive without notice. Without Lestrade’s convenient timing, Sherlock would have gone the same way as the late Mr. Vaughn. Dismissed as a junky, rather than the victim of a deliberate attack on rival cartel supporters. 

“He attempted to remove obstacles along the way. You, your former DI, Sherlock, the other dealers.”

“He succeeded, Mycroft,” Greg croaked. “Duncan went missing in Manchester a week ago.” 

Mycroft frowned. Missing was rarely the same as dead, though Greg would be more aware of circumstances indicating the same. If Blackwell was willing to extend his influence as far as Manchester, he would hardly balk at the idea of including a dinner date in his attack on Lestrade.

Greg let his forehead drop to his knees again and Mycroft could hear the muttering. “Shut up. Shut up. Please... Hell boys, straight to hell…”

“Lestrade!”

He started, his head snapping up at an uncomfortable speed, blinking at Mycroft again.

“We are going to be fine.” Mycroft tried to modulate his voice. It was wildly unsettling how unnerved Greg seemed. He was a steady, reliable, level-headed man. The distress was contagious. “My people will find us. We are going to walk out of here. And I am going to rain fire and brimstone of biblical proportions on this paltry, illicit business of his. He is going to wish you had arrested him, because there is no measure of justice that will satisfy me. Do you understand?”

He heaved a breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Look at me!” Mycroft snapped. “Greg. Please. We are going to be fine. Tell me you understand that.”

“Yes.” Greg wet his lips slowly and nodded again. “Ok.”

Mycroft gave a vicious pull on his arms as the plastic snapped. He ignored the rings that remained around his wrists, the skin he’d abraded against the brick to wear down the bindings, allowing a brief and satisfied roll of his shoulders with the freedom. “Riot ties,” he grumbled and crawled the small distance to Greg, not quite ready to stand.

“I-I’ve a pen knife,” he shifted uncomfortably. “Keyring, right pocket.”

Mycroft fished the keys from his trouser pocket. Pragmatic and essential. “Handy.” It took only moments to cut Lestrade free and help him to his feet. He was still unsteady and looked at very real risk of vomiting. “Can you walk?”

Greg glanced around the space nervously then shook himself. “Y-yeah. I. Yes.”

He was unconvinced. Mycroft’s knees still had a vaguely gelatinous feeling to them, but Greg was shaking. “The closer we are to the surface, the easier it will be.” Easier to be found. Easier to breathe. Easier to escape. He took Lestrade’s arm. “If we can find our way out of here, I promise the next dinner we have will end better.”

Greg giggled, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. “Christ, I’d hope so.” He visibly collected himself. “It’s… There,” he gestured. “That’s the short way.”

Mycroft followed his line of sight and winced. Greg hadn’t been far off with his estimate - Mycroft could count ten bodies at a glance.

“He just left them down here…” His face had gone ashen again.

“No way but through,” Mycroft said firmly. He held his arm up to his nose, a poor defense against the smell emanating from the next hall, and took Greg’s elbow in his other hand. It didn’t require much cajoling to start them moving, but he could feel Greg shudder intermittently as they made their way through the narrow, horror lined corridor. Mycroft glanced back when Greg stumbled - he had both hands over his ears, head down, eyes shut as he blindly followed Mycroft through the worst of it. How could he bear the smell? They were nearly to the next intersection, a sharp, ninety degree turn in the hallway. It would have to be better. The air would be clearer. There should be stairs or a ladder nearby.

Greg grabbed both of his arms. It was so unexpected that he almost yelled. Almost. But Greg’s palm clamped over his mouth as he was pushed up against the wall. Mycroft stared, alarmed and aggravated all at once. Greg brought a finger to his lips and waited for Mycroft to nod his understanding. For whatever reason, he tilted his head in agreement and drew a slow, measured breath through his mouth as the palm lifted. He didn’t hear anything - no, that wasn’t entirely correct. Mycroft could hear the occasional drip of water, the hum of pipes, the odd stoney scratch that suggested small vermin.

Greg’s face pinched in pain then he lifted his gaze meaningfully and raised two fingers. Voices. Lestrade must have hearing like a bat, because Mycroft could only just hear them now, in the stillness, while holding his breath. Good Lord, there were people in the catacombs. Two of them, if Greg was correct. Perhaps it was a byproduct of being struck in the head - hyperacusis. It would explain the sensitivity, the unsteadiness, the way he was closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. The fine tremor running through his shoulders and arms.

Mycroft listened. They mustn’t be just around the corner. Perhaps another room off the tunnel? Men. Adult, deep voices. Certainly not his own people and not doing anything to disguise their location. They were comfortable here. Guard down. Lazy? Careless. They had stopped moving. Staying wherever they were. The collection of small noises allowed the smallest amount of tension to unspool from his shoulders. “Cards,” he murmured.

Greg nodded against Mycroft’s shoulder before righting himself. “That’s the way out.”

Mycroft raised a brow. He had no doubt Greg was correct, though how he could know that… “Shall we?”

They picked their way cautiously around the corner and towards the next room. Light spilled into the corridor, Mycroft could hear a deck shuffle, the scrape of a chair against the stone floor. Through, they would have to go through that room. Squinting against the brightness, he could make out a staircase in the far corner.

It had been a good few years since he’d required much or any of his combat training. And for a moment, Mycroft was more than grateful for the years he had spent in the field. Afterall, no one started at a desk job, they merely survived long enough to earn it. Greg was only a half step behind him, a tense look of determination on his face. And with a rapid, wordless conversation, they made their plan.

They had the element of surprise, the advantage of half-drunk quarry, and what essentially boiled down to the higher-ground. It was quick. It was fairly merciless. Mycroft delivered a neat blow to the temple that left one man slumped over the table as Greg landed an uppercut that sent his mark sprawling on the floor. Before the chair hit the ground, Greg had collected the sidearm from the table, and primed it.

“Are you alright?”

A tentative smile pulled at the corner of Greg’s mouth. Perhaps he wasn’t alright per say, but he looked no worse for the altercation.

It happened in a breath. Greg moved first, with the flit of his eyes, the gun lifted, training on something over Mycroft’s shoulder. The sound of another person came immediately after and Mycroft spun. Blackwell. There was another entrance to the room, and as he’d hyper-fixated on one thing, it had escaped his notice. And now there was a fairly intimidating looking pistol pointing at his head.

The report of a gun was loud enough that it punched the breath from his chest, echoing off the brick and stone and sending his head spinning momentarily. But it was only a moment. And it was only the sound that had shocked him. Mycroft blinked his eyes open - berating himself for closing them in the first place - to empty space. Blackwell was on the floor.

Behind him, Greg lowered the gun cautiously to his side, flicking the safety on without thought. Blackwell wasn’t moving. Dead. Certainly dead. Single shot - midmast. Had to be. Mycroft stooped to retrieve the man’s gun and check for a pulse. He released a sigh of relief. “Dead.”

Two unconscious and one dead and an empty stairwell between them and what was likely the freshest air London could provide. Mycroft felt oddly fragile. Hesitantly hopeful. Greg’s nod was barely noticeable. He clenched his jaw and glared at the space where Blackwell had been standing.

“Gregory?” Mycroft frowned. He was rigid, standing stock still with an apprehensive look on his face. His eyes tightened. It wasn’t a sensation that Mycroft could place, the pin-prick of fingers walking up his spine, the cold, foreboding that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the heavy weight of how dark the room actually was - had become. “Greg?” he whispered.

It was a horror story in the blink of an eye. He saw Greg’s expression change, a flash of fear, maybe surprise. He let out a bitten off cry of pain and dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.

“Greg!”


	13. Chapter 13

“No!” No. No, no, no, no, no. Mycroft was across the room before he remembered to draw breath. “Greg!” It was internal bleeding. Maybe. Possibly. Or he’d been correct about the broken rib. Pneumothorax? Greg was hunched over on his knees, keeping his face from the ground only by resting his forehead on his forearm. “Greg?” 

He was clammy. Mycroft could feel the sweat that had gathered at the nape of his neck. And his skin was a horrid shade of grey.  _ He’s dying _ , his mind supplied. And promptly went entirely blank.

Greg whimpered, a high and tight sound through gritted teeth, and mumbled something Mycroft couldn’t hear.

Oh God, no. No! No. “What do I… Greg. What is it? I don’t…”Mycroft shook himself. He was intelligent. He was calm in a crisis. He was… Field trained. He would not panic. He would  _ not _ panic. He would absolutely not panic. “Greg,” he eased him down onto his side then gently onto his back. “Let me see.”

He slid both hands under Greg’s coat and pushed it open, his jacket next. Dear God, blood. Blood. Lots of blood. “Oh…” It took a fraction of a moment too long for him to react in the flickering lights, pressing both hands down on the gentle well of crimson eminanting from the left side of his chest. Greg gave a small grunt and hissed, but the blood kept coming. Bullet wound. Shot. Blackwell must have gotten a shot off. Mycroft had been sure the pistol was pointed at him, but heavens - the blood. God… Everywhere. It was soaking his hands. Running between his fingers. It wouldn’t stop. “I can’t… Greg.”

“Myc, don’t…” Greg whined and tried to curl in on himself.

“No, lay still.” He freed one hand to cup Greg’s cheek, to sweep across his forehead, to soothe him however possible. Then he remembered the blood. It would be grotesque, smearing it around Greg’s face. And he froze, hand hovering, fingers pale and shaking and definitely not covered in blood.

No blood. His hands were clean. He checked them. Both of them. Front and back. Greg’s chest was whole and encased in his pale blue shirt,free of the drenching red stain. And Mycroft was relieved and confused and panicking. He was definitely panicking now. He was seeing things. Delirious maybe. Was it the drugs?

Greg’s teeth clenched and he curled onto his side, tucking his arms around himself with an agonized sound. There was sweat pouring off of him, his hair damp and dark at the temples. And he snarled harsh and low, “Fuck off!”

Mycroft reared back as though he’d been slapped. It barely sounded like Gregory. His voice was wrong. He never... 

One of the light bulbs blew out with a loud pop even as the other two grew persistently brighter, heralding an imminent burnout.

Greg was humming again, murmuring to himself, repeating the same thing over and over again. Helpless. Mycroft felt completely helpless. It was not a sensation with which he was familiar, nor one that he enjoyed in the least. “Gregory…”

“Go straight to hell, boys,” Greg hummed a bar that broke into a sob. “Straight. To. Hell.”

The lights flickered dangerously, buzzing and pinging as the elements coped with fluctuating electricity. There were footfalls, a large number of them. And close. Above them? They’d be at the stairs in moments. 

“Get. Out!” Greg folded tighter into the fetal position and shouted in pain - a long sustained cry that pitched into a high keen. 

The lights died, plunging the room into murky darkness. For a moment, the only sound was Greg’s harsh breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. More steps. Boots. Mycroft had the horrifying thought that the people overhead may not be  _ his _ people. What if Blackwell had more men? They were terribly exposed. He couldn’t fathom trying to move Greg. Fish in a barrel. Then he was tipping forward, Greg’s fist closed in the lapel of his coat.

“Not you, Mycroft. Not you,” he panted. “Safe. Gonna be safe.”

“Yes. O-of course we are.” He heaved a tight breath, smoothed a hand across Greg’s shoulders as he huddled closer and blindly tried to settle Greg’s head in his lap. They would have to be his people, wouldn’t they? They moved with military precision. He could almost hear the formation as they kicked open the metal gate at the top of the stairs. 

“I need a medic down here!”

“Mr. Holmes?!”

The relief at a familiar voice... He yelled back his code - wouldn’t do to be met with a flash-bang or a concussive grenade. Undoubtedly they had some way to see in the dark, but bright torches appeared and Mycroft could see again. A small, welcome comfort as long as the beams weren’t focused directly in his eyes.

Greg curled in tighter, pressing his cheek into Mycroft’s thigh. “Don’t like hospitals.”

It may have been rude, but Mycroft laughed, giddy with his escaping tension. “I don’t care.” He stroked Greg’s hair gently and pressed a featherlight kiss to his temple, listening to the way his breathing eased.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

Greg sighed. “You owe me dinner…” And his hand slipped from Mycroft’s coat.

“Greg?” Mycroft thought he had been panicking before, but he was utterly incorrect. He was panicking now. “Greg!”

“Sir!”

~

At the soft knock on the door, Mycroft lifted his head from the cradle of his hands. “Come in.”

His assistant entered and closed the door behind her, placing a suitcase near the foot of the bed. “The labs are back; you were correct. Both of you had been given sedatives.”

He nodded slowly. There were often times he regretted being correct. “Hallucinogens?”

The corner of her mouth turned down. “Not as such. And not in the concentrations found.”

He lifted a brow, exhaustion taking the bite from his expression. It had been an unbearably long night. After his own health had been seen to, his injuries tended, and his well-being established, he had been released to look in on Gregory. Released insofar as he was still on hospital grounds in a well fortified, military infirmary. That Gregory remained resolutely unconscious had kept him from any possible sleep.

Very little of the preceding twenty hours made logical sense, however Mycroft turned it over in his mind. Hallucinogenic drugs might have improved his overall outlook on the more confounding moments. But alas… 

“What are the doctors saying?”

He tried not to smile. She would have already demanded updates, collated all available data, and possibly outsourced interpretation to global experts. The question was a social nicety. “Stress,” he answered flatly.

She tilted her head ever so slightly. “I see.” It was not an agreeable comment. Should there be nothing medically wrong with him, Mycroft would trust her judgement over and above medical staff. “And Lestrade?”

“Also stress,” he sighed. “Exhaustion.” They had scanned and tested Gregory to no end and come up with very little. His MRI was normal, the fMRI was normal, the EEG and ECGs were normal, his blood work was astoundingly normal. Evidence of minor soft tissue injuries, bruising here and there. “Likely, he was less inclined to quietly accept sedation, and as they had lost the element of surprise, he took the brunt of their physical aggression. Nonetheless, beyond his mildly elevated CK, they have found nothing.”

She hummed. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He gave into the impulse to rub his eyes. “I would be forced to agree with both, but they neglect the fact that he was… In pain.” Mycroft winced at the word. “Not an insignificant amount. That we cannot account for the source of it is concerning.”

“Sir,” she began carefully. “Might I suggest you take a moment?”

He looked up sharply, narrowing his eyes. “A moment?”

She flicked a hand at the suitcase. “There is an ensuite. I’ve procured fresh clothes for you. I can only imagine the improvement a shower and clean suit will bring.”

She was right. Lord, he would have to give her a raise. “I choose to be grateful for the fresh suit and not insulted that you are implying that I am filthy.”

“I would never.”

He ran his fingers down Greg’s forearm. He didn’t move. Mycroft sighed. “Will you…”

“Of course, Sir.”

He retreated to the ensuite with the suitcase. He showered quickly, but thoroughly. There was grit in his hair, and in spite of the bruising and abrasions around his wrists, he absolutely needed to scrub his hands clean more than once. When he emerged, freshly shaven, in an uncreased suit, there was a tea tray on the side table with a steaming pot and small selection of sandwiches. “Must you really think of everything?”

She gave him a bland smile. “I don’t have to, no. I elect to.”

He sat at the table, doing his best to ignore the discomfort of distance from the bedside. “Is there anything further I should be aware of?”

“Your laptop and a new phone are in the suitcase, though I doubt you needed me to mention that. You are on leave for the next three days, by mandate, following which…” She trailed off, tactfully allowing the threat of a psychiatric evaluation evaporate in the silence.

“Of course.”

“I will be by in the morning again. Should you think of anything,” she stood, smoothing her skirt in one brisk movement. “I work for you, Sir. Not for them.”

It was the loudest declaration of loyalty he could imagine, and he found himself oddly sentimental. “Thank you.”

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Have they been giving him much sedation?”

He startled, glancing up from his careful deconstruction of a sandwich quarter. “No. Not sedation. They reduced his analgesia a few hours ago, but he’s not being sedated.” She seemed to consider Greg for a moment then dismissed the thought. “Why?”

“It’s just… Well, he’s breathing perfectly well there. But he sleeps like the dead.”

She had left after that. Abandoning Mycroft to his rapidly cooling tea and decently unsatisfactory sandwiches. And his thoughts, which were wholly unhappy company. He moved back to the bedside chair so that he could continue his confusion and melancholy while keeping Gregory’s hand in his own. It was a warm and comforting weight, the steady pulse in his wrist a gentle relief. He’d had no intention of falling asleep, and certainly not in that chair. Yet somewhere between the warm tea, the carbohydrate heavy food, and even machinery beeping, he was lulled off into a doze.

The sound roused him.

It was loud in the otherwise quiet room, and Mycroft was quickly and completely awake. The sound repeated - a whimper. Mycroft sat forward, tightening his grip on Greg’s hand. “Greg?”

Greg’s entire face creased and he groaned.

Pain. All Mycroft could see in the expression was pain. “Greg? It’s alright.”

The groan became a sharp heave as Greg curled onto his side, pressing his hands to his temples. “Loud.”

“Greg,” he felt his heart rate kick into a rapid cadence. “Please.”

“It’s so loud,” he gasped. “God, stop. Stop, stop, stop!”

“Greg…”

“Too loud. Make it stop! Please!”

The creeping sensation of panic spread through Mycroft’s chest along with what he could only describe as acute, physical pain. He caught Greg’s face between his palms, leaning close and dropping his voice as low and soothing as he could. “You’re safe. Greg, you’re safe.”

His eyes blinked open, wide and dark and filled with fear. “Myc, make them stop.”

Complete powerlessness. He felt totally lost and horribly useless as Greg’s eyes welled with tears. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know. This was outside his repertoire. He hadn’t the knowledge or the data to begin to help with… whatever on Earth was happening here.

“Myc…” He pressed his lips together, muffling a moan.

Mycroft didn’t know what he was doing. He had no clue. But as far as impulses go, it was perhaps not the worst he’d ever had, but it was clumsy and uncoordinated. He shifted onto the bed, pulling Greg up to tuck against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he hushed. “Shh, shh.” It was the only song he could think of, the only experience he could draw from - comforting a frightened younger brother after a nightmare.

It had been years since he’d had reason to offer comfort this way. He felt rusty, awkward in his adult body, rocking someone equally adult. But Greg’s distressed breathing slowly eased and the death grip he had on Mycroft’s shirt slackened. It may have been the third or the fourth repetition of the lullaby when Greg sighed and shuddered. “Hate hospitals.”

“Ok,” Mycroft murmured.

“Too loud.”

“Alright.” He hummed through the verse. “We’ll go in the morning.”


	14. Chapter 14

For all the pushback he’d expected, seeing Gregory discharged into his care was far simpler than it should have been. Mycroft had his suspicions, but he would never question the intervention of his assistant when it so efficiently smoothed his way. Gregory, on the other hand, seemed intent on creating obstacles for himself.

First, his refusal of any analgesia in the face of what was clearly distressing levels of pain led to a nearly half-hour long argument that left Mycroft with a slight twitch in his left eye. Second, after managing to arrange a follow-up schedule, Greg started a disagreement about the location of his convalescence. This did give Mycroft a headache. 

The solution was found, yet again, by his assistant, when she calmly reminded everyone in the room of security protocol and the time it would take to provide adequate coverage at an unsecured location. It was a truce of sorts. They would take steps to create protections for Greg’s flat; Greg would remain with Mycroft in the interim. Following two nights with little to no sleep and the stress and exhaustion of the whole ordeal, being in a quiet and comfortable, armored car with the gentle hum of the engine was enough that Mycroft dozed. Gregory fell asleep completely.

When they arrived at his home, Mycroft saw Greg to the guest room. True to form, Greg did not really wake on the way and was well asleep, curled beneath the duvet within moments of his head hitting the pillows. He hadn’t even noticed his belongings or his cat waiting for him. 

As tempted as he was to stay, Mycroft found himself in need of a nap. Thus, by mid afternoon, he was rested, refreshed, fed, and had offered some rather pointed guidance for his enthusiastic interns as to the slow dissection of an illicit business. At which point, he brought a cup of tea and book to the guest room and installed himself in the comfortable armchair beside the bed.

It was another hour before Greg woke. Inky was curled on his chest, purring loudly and intermittently kneading the bunched fabric at his sternum. It was comforting to watch. Greg brought his hand up, stroking it along the cat’s spine with a soft hum. “Oi, Mister, you weigh a tonne. What am I feeding you?” He received a gentle headbutt to the chin in response.

Mycroft closed his book, making no effort to be silent. “Gregory?”

“Mycroft.”

A weight that he barely knew he was carrying fell from his shoulders as Greg blinked up at him, eyes clear and bright. His brow furrowed and Mycroft leaned forward to rest a palm on his shoulder. “My guest room.” He answered the unasked question. “I felt it unfair to leave Inky unattended for another evening.”

“Oh.” The creases on his forehead smoothed and the very beginning of a smile played across his lips.

“How… How is your head?” He had a glass of water to hand and paracetamol. Mycroft wished to respect the injunction on anything stronger provided he never had to see the tight lines of pain on Gregory’s face again. “It’s not… Not too loud here?”

It was like watching a shutter drop, the open expression wiping clean from Greg’s face as it was rapidly replaced by wariness. “N-no.” He shifted, edging his back up the headboard as Mycroft’s hand slid from his shoulder. He gave a practiced scoop to keep the cat from being dislodged, cuddling him firmly against his chest. “No, it’s fine.”

Mycroft watched him, worried and disappointed in equal measure. “I only ask out of concern. You… We survived an ordeal. I want…” He frowned at his own hands as he folded them on his lap. It was oddly challenging to put into words. Frustrating. “Are you alright?”

Greg swallowed and worried his lower lip, forcing a nod.

It was less than convincing. “Is there… Can I… What can I do?”

He could see one of Greg’s eyebrows go up even as he tipped his face down and away from him. “N-nothing. Not, not yet… I’m… Just not yet, Myc.”

Mycroft gave a slow nod. “Of course.” He cleared his throat, stood, and straightened his shirt. He felt very much as though he’d been dismissed. Perhaps shut out in a rather permanent way. “I have plenty of food in. I believe you remember where the kitchen is. Please treat my home as yours.” 

Before he could step away from the bed, Greg reached out and caught his wrist. “Just… Not yet?”

There was something fragile in the way Greg gazed up at him; worry and fear pooling in liquid brown eyes and Mycroft couldn’t say no to that. “Of course,” he said quietly, cupping Greg’s face between his palms and pressing a careful kiss to his forehead. “When you’re ready. Not before.”

Many people believed that Mycroft was a patient man. They would be incorrect, though they’d have difficulty understanding why. He was strategic, knowing when to bide his time, find the perfect moment; that was less about patience and more about perfection. He was also, quite frequently bored, waiting for people to finish a thought, catch up with a logical plan; that was politics and etiquette, not patience. He knew how to be still, to appear placid, to seem calm. But deep down, at his core, Mycroft was not patient. So if he managed to sleep through the night, while his brain continued to turn over the problem of Gregory Lestrade, it had nothing to do with patience.

Greg had remained in the guest room for the evening and overnight. He had been timidly grateful for the soup and toast Mycroft sent up, but he hadn’t appeared to have much of an appetite. As such, Mycroft was surprised to find Greg in the kitchen the following morning, seemingly bright and chipper. He watched his back and shoulders move beneath the well worn cotton of his tee-shirt as he busied himself opening every drawer and cupboard in the room. The cafetiere was steeping and there was a mug standing next to it, so it couldn’t be in search of coffee. There was sugar and cream on the worktop, ready for use. The elements of the toaster were humming and Mycroft could smell the bread. The rocking chair in the corner creaked softly.

There was an angry hiss from the counter beside Greg and he paused, glancing at the corner before tilting his head down. “Oi. We are guests.” He tapped the cat on the nose. “Don’t be rude.” Inky sat and glared up at him. The standoff lasted no more than a moment and Greg stroked his head. “I know, I know. You’re hungry. I just need to find the bloody can opener.”

“Third drawer down to the left of the sink.”

“Christ!” Greg jumped as he spun around. “Shit.”

Mycroft gave him an apologetic if not slightly amused smile and retrieved the can opener on his behalf. “Apologies.”

“God, you’re worse than him.”

Inky ignored the slight and crawled his front paws up Greg’s arm, chirping for attention and food.

“Yeah. Ok,” Greg set to work opening the food and spooning it into a bowl. “You’re not getting this stuff when we go home, so don’t get used to it.”

Mycroft busied himself buttering the toast and pouring the coffee as Greg set the dish on the floor. “Was this all you were planning on eating?”

“Hm?”

“Toast…” Mycroft frowned slightly. It was hardly breakfast. And after such little food in the past day… 

“Just need to settle my stomach a bit. It’s sorta…” he made a rocking motion with his hand. 

“Oh.” Of course he’d be nauseated. He had put nothing but pills and water in his stomach. After the drugging and quite possibly a mild concussion, a large meal wouldn’t be at all appealing. Mycroft handed him a well doctored coffee and picked up the plate of toast. “Come, I think we should find somewhere more comfortable to eat. Perhaps with pillows and blankets?”

Greg blushed delightfully. “Um…”

“Sofa?” He lifted a brow playfully. “I have a lovely entertainment room just through here.”

Greg followed him almost shyly, waiting for Mycroft to sit before nestling into the opposite corner of the overstuffed couch. Mycroft set the toast on the table halfway between them, shifted only slightly closer, and handed one of the many blankets across the way. “You know, I tend to drink my coffee black.”

“I am aware.” Mycroft distracted himself from watching Gregory make himself comfortable by turning on the news and setting the volume low. “The cream and sugar will do more to settle your stomach than not.”

Greg picked at the toast, sipped his coffee, and intermittently stared at the screen. Mycroft was well aware that Greg wasn’t truly watching, just absently letting the light and sound wash over him as he mulled something over in his head. Inky found a spot on his lap just after Mycroft refilled their coffee, forcing Greg to relinquish the death grip he had on his mug. 

That he couldn’t parse the problem without Gregory elucidating on the topic was infuriating. But Mycroft was willing to bide his time; allow Gregory the space to reach whatever conclusion was imminent. And it was approaching. There was a resolution to the furrow of Greg’s brow, a resolve to the set of his shoulders. Even the purring cat had quieted.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft arched a brow and pulled his eyes from the television. Unexpected. “You’re… quite welcome?” The expression on Gregorys face was too complex, too layered to explicate as it shifted rapidly before his eyes.

Greg’s mouth tugged into a wry smile and he shook his head as he set his mug aside. “You don’t… That I’m here at all right now and not…”

Mycroft watched the creases at the corner of his mouth, the tightness around his eyes. It was sorrow and pain… and fear. He tilted his head. “And not what?”

“In… In a hospital somewhere…”

In a hospital? There was no need to remain under medical care if there was nothing medically wrong. Convalescence was easily achieved in a comfortable home. In a hospital. “Your injuries are not so severe…” He trailed off at the angry huff from across the couch. Oh. Not a medical hospital. “Your grandmother,” he said carefully.

The nod was lost in a shrug and he worried his lower lip.

“Gregory,” Mycroft gently placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t…”

“I know what I sounded like. What it looked like. And I… It wouldn’t really be a stretch…” 

“Greg.” He gave a cautious squeeze. “I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t even underst-” He took a shaky breath.

“I do not.” Mycroft let the statement hang between them, let the room fall quiet and still. “Whatever it is that I don’t comprehend, I only seek to know out of desire to protect you.” He traced his thumb gently over the ridge of his collarbone. “I… I am not a fan of seeing you in distress and I would hope to do everything in my power to avoid it in the future. Particularly, I do not want to hurt you.”

He leaned ever so slightly into the touch. Closed his eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Mycroft hummed. It was quite possible that Greg’s explanation would sound mildly deranged. Mycroft had questioned his mental wellbeing often enough in Clerkenwell. Then again, he’d been questioning his own. “If you are crazy, then so too am I.”

“Myc…”

He felt the smile twist his lips before he could hide it. Greg gave him a sardonic glare. “While we may have been drugged, it was not hallucinogenic.” It felt imperative that Greg understand him in this. “And what I saw… experienced there. I cannot explain it. It makes no logical sense and flies in the face of everything that founds my worldview.”

Greg’s face dropped in misery. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. You misunderstand me.” Mycroft let his hand move, slide down Greg’s bicep to rest on his forearm. “I want to appreciate, to have some grasp on the matter at hand.”

Greg lifted his eyes, scrutinized Mycroft from behind an apprehensive, molten brown gaze.

It was equal parts wounded and wounding and Mycroft felt his heart stutter in his chest. He cupped Greg’s face in his palm, meticulously skirting the deep bruising on the crest of his cheek. “Please.”

“You won’t believe me,” Greg whispered hesitantly.

“Try me.”


	15. Chapter 15

Greg watched as Mycroft gave him a level stare. This was the persistent calm that Mycroft had mastered. He could wait it out - wait him out. Clearly it wasn’t a decision Greg was taking lightly, though Mycroft would argue that he had never once considered Greg to be flippant. Nor was Mycroft; Greg deserved reverence and consideration, particularly given that Mycroft had very little idea what he was about to reveal. He pulled his hand back to rest on Greg’s knee.

“I…” Greg tipped his head, addressing the cat for a moment. “The dead… talk. To me.”

Mycroft felt the corner of his mouth pull reflexively in amusement. He immediately regretted it as Greg glanced up and caught the expression. A look of deep hurt marred his features and Mycroft felt it like a blow to the solar plexus. He was serious. Greg was  _ serious. _ He truly believed that… 

“Y-you don’t believe me.”

“Greg,” Mycroft squeezed his knee.

“Oh God.” He dug a hand into his hair. “I knew… You can’t…”

“No, Greg, wait.” He took his shoulders in his hands. “Please.” Mycroft took a long slow breath. “Give me a moment to… Understand?”

Greg bit his lip hard and turned his face away, leaving Mycroft to study his profile, to turn his words over, to hope to understand what had been said. He let his hands drop back down to his own lap. Greg thought he could speak to the dead. No, that wasn’t quite correct. He said the dead spoke to him. Irrational. Illogical. And yet, there was nothing but conviction on Gregory’s face. If Mycroft deigned to abandon reason, was it completely impossible?

“You…” Mycroft began slowly. “Commune with the dead?”

Greg gave a desperate huff. “Commune.”

“What, not… commune? Alright.” Mycroft furrowed his brow. Not commune. He reverted back to Greg’s own words. “The dead talk to you. Talk at you?”

Greg shrugged.

“You… You cannot control it.”

Greg shook his head.

“How does it work?”

Greg looked exasperated. “I dunno, Mycroft! There isn’t exactly a bunch of people out there researching it!”

“No, no.” Mycroft dispelled that notion. “Not how.  _ How _ ? The experience itself. What is the experience?”

“I… I dunno,” Greg scraped a thumb over his eyebrow. “It’s… Different. I know the difference, right. But. They’re cold. Metallic?” He shuddered. “They just… They’re there. And it’s been going on my whole life. And sometimes I think they know I can see them and hear them. And that makes it worse.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. Then something occurred to him. “Joao Andrade…” Lestrade had known about Comodoro, about Joao’s family, about who had killed him. How could he have possibly known all of that? How had Mycroft dismissed it at all?

Greg winced. “Yeah.”

There were other times, other moments. Mycroft would have seen and discarded information out of hand, too absurd to consider anything other than coincidence, a quirk of Greg’s personality. The way he moved when he was at ease, when he was apprehensive. “But London is old, densely populated. There must be thousands, millions…”

Greg shifted, making himself smaller in the corner of the sofa, tucking Inky closer to his chest. “It’s not… I don’t think it’s forever. Just. It dissipates, with time. Like,” he waved a hand absently. “Entropy. It just….”

“So the newly deceased?”

“Mmn,” Greg swallowed. “Just are more… There.”

Mycroft considered it. Like entropy. Like energy. To expand upon the metaphor, not only would the newly deceased carry more energy, weight, presence perhaps, the younger, those who reached their end more abruptly would also… “Gregory, why on earth are you with the CID?”

It was something of a helpless shrug. “What else would I do?”

“Lead the haunted bus tours of London. You could make fantastic money as a charlatan,” Mycroft offered. “Be a finder of lost things. I’m sure any number of famous people would pay for the opportunity to know that their pets truly loved them. Rekindle the Victorian passion for seances.”

“And be burned as a witch, no thanks.”

“Greg,” he set a hand on his shoulder, let it glide to the back of his neck. When his fingers scratched through the hair at his nape, Greg leaned into the touch. “Of course I believe you. I don’t fully understand it, but I believe you.”

The look Mycroft received cleaved his heart in two. It was hope and relief and wonder and disquiet. Greg’s eyes shimmered. “Why?”

“Why?”

It was nearly too wet to be considered a laugh. “Why do you believe me?”

“Greg…” It was far simpler to tug, to use the hand on the back of his neck to draw him forward, to pull him flush against Mycroft’s chest and breathe than to attempt an explanation. Inky let out a muffled squawk of displeasure and escaped to the armchair. Mycroft sighed and drew his arms more firmly around Greg, shifted back into the corner of the sofa so they might be comfortable. “How could I not?”

Greg settled slowly, tucked up under Mycroft’s chin. Even as his breathing calmed, Mycroft could feel the tension hold fast in his shoulders and back. So Mycroft waited - again - stroking his hand soothingly up and down Greg’s back. He could feel the deep inhale beneath his palm, but the confession was whisper soft when it came.

“I… I’ve never told anyone. Before. Ever.”

Mycroft considered that - how trying to maintain such a secret would weigh on a person. His whole life, he’d said. What a terrible burden… “No one?”

Greg shook his head.

“Because… of your grandmother?” It wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark, but Mycroft still felt woefully uninformed. Greg gave a single, sharp dip of his chin. “She told someone and…”

“Y-yeah.” He bit back something, a thought, but only for a moment. “I think she did actually go crazy… in the end.”

The asylums of that time were horrible institutions. They were designed to keep the mentally unwell out of the public eye by any means necessary and did very little to improve upon the well-being of their charges. No one could hold onto their sanity in such a place. He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Greg’s head. “I am so sorry.”

“My mum made it very clear, even when I was really small, that no one… That we just couldn’t tell people.”

“Your mother could, as well?”

Greg’s cheek rubbed against Mycroft’s shirt as he nodded. “Runs in the family, I guess.”

“And I thought my family had problems.” The glib comment sent Gregory off into a fit of laughter, exhausted chuckles that Mycroft could feel reverberating in his own chest and couldn’t help but echo. When they had calmed again, Mycroft buried his nose against the top of Greg’s head, letting the scent and texture of the grey strands nearly overwhelm him. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“I think…” Greg’s palm came to rest flat on Mycroft’s chest. “I think you would have figured it out eventually.”

“I think you give me too much credit.” He stretched for the blanket on the floor, not wanting to dislodge Gregory’s comfortable position. After draping it around them both, he selected his words with care. “May I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

It was what he’d come back to again and again. Something he still could not understand. “What exactly happened in Clerkenwell?”

Greg went completely rigid, and for a long moment, didn’t seem to breathe. Finally, he blew out a long breath and swallowed. “It’s… It’s hard to explain.”

“You needn’t if you do not want to.” He wanted him to, desperately. But Mycroft wouldn’t push him.

“No, I…” He steadied himself, shifted so his ear was pressed over Mycroft’s heart. “I… Drugs make things worse,” he said finally.

Drugs… Lower inhibitions, sedate, make people suggestible. “You don’t drink,” Mycroft observed.

“No, not really. Not… ever. The last time I had a scotch, I ended up making out in a loading dock with some fancy bloke in a tux.”

Mycroft scrunched his fingers through Greg’s hair. “Oh dear.”

Greg sighed. “Anything like that makes it harder to tell. They’re clearer. Louder. And I can’t,” he made an absent motion with his hand. “Block them out? And they were all there.”

“They?” Mycroft prompted. “The men… Oh.” The neat room of horrors, piled high with Blackwell’s recent victims. The corridor that Mycroft had pulled Greg into. “Did you… Did you know I was real?”

Greg made an ambiguous noise. “Eventually. Once, once I could hear you properly.”

“I thought you had hyperacusis. A concussion. I didn’t want to yell.”

“N-not. I probably do have a concussion. But not, not the hearing thing. They were talking. They wanted me to get out, or to at least get to the room where…” Greg shuddered.

“And what precisely did I see there?”

“I… He was… I don’t know what to call it, but it was like a possession? He just. He jumped in and I had to kick him out again.”

“Greg.” Mycroft’s arms tightened involuntarily. “The blood… That was his. Oh Lord. You had been yelling at him.”

Greg nodded.

“I… I believed you were dying.”

Greg was silent.

“You…” Mycroft winced. “You were dying.”

Greg shrugged. “I… I’ve seen it happen. It’s… It’s not… Nice.”

“Greg,” Mycroft gave a bitter laugh. “Not nice? When… How have you seen…?”

“It’s how my mum died,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft froze. “You said you went grey when you were eighteen.” Oh mercy. The sealed juvenile records, the health records, the unusual reports when Greg, only barely an adult, became an independent orphan. It had been filed under accidental deaths. Suspected carbon monoxide poisoning. Two adults, dead in a house, and a teenager unconscious.

“He tried to get me first, but my mum…” It was a pregnant pause. “Just ripped him out of me and into her.”

Mycroft was speechless. Utterly and completely lost for words.

“Myc?”

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Why singing?”

“What?”

“You,” he drew up one of his knees, wanting to wrap himself around Gregory entirely, hold him until the fine tremors stopped. “Self-soothe by singing?”

“It’s steady noise. A rhythm,” Greg tapped on Mycroft’s chest, keeping pace with his heartbeat. “It gives me something to focus on. Inky, when he’s purring, it…”

“The Clash though?” Mycroft asked fondly.

“It’s no French lullabye, but it was all that I could think of.”

Mycroft hummed softly just to feel Greg’s face shift into a smile as he thought back over what he knew, what he’d learned. “Haint blue.”

“What?”

“I took it for Robin’s egg - on your ceiling. It’s Haint, is it not?”

Greg mumbled an affirmative. “Bit superstitious, but can you blame me?”

Oh, the horseshoe. The lavender and heather. The silver bowl. The position of the mirrors. A black cat. “The salt?”

“I honestly just spilled that and hadn’t cleaned it up. I told you, I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mycroft chuckled. “What else have I missed, Gregory? What other fascinating details have I dismissed out of hand, because knowing you was too impossible at the time?”

Greg eased out of Mycroft’s hold, pushing up on his arms so he could see Mycroft’s face clearly. “Do you really want to know?” he asked seriously.

He cupped his face gently, sweeping his thumb over the tight lines of worry and severity. “Gregory,” he pressed a fleeting kiss to Greg’s lips. “When it comes to you, I want to know everything.”


	16. Chapter 16

Greg pulled back to sit on his heels, chewing on his lower lip as Mycroft struggled into a more upright position. “Everything?” 

Mycroft nodded.

“You may not like me-like knowing everything.”

“I adore knowing you.”

Greg opened his mouth, but there was simply no sound. He shook himself. “I don’t know where to start.”

He reached out, smoothing his palms down Gregory’s shoulders and biceps, his forearms. “I, in our acquaintance, not knowing what I know now… There must have been a time…” He furrowed his brow. Mistakes must have been made. He would have done things inadvertently harmful. Surely the text message over which he’d been scolded was the least of his missteps. “I would like to make up for any failings of my behavior.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Nonetheless. I have most certainly,” he stared at the bruises ringing Greg’s wrists. “Hurt you. And I do not wish to repeat it.”

“Myc…”

“Please.”

“The hospital,” Greg said quietly.

“You were unconscious,” Mycroft objected immediately. “I know you said you didn’t like them, but I had no other-”

“No,” Greg cut across him. “Not… Not then.”

If not then, when? Mycroft found himself studying the top of Gregory’s head. When had he bowed his shoulders and neck? The only other time he had even seen Greg in a hospital was… “I asked you to wait there for me.” Greg, who on his day off had stumbled across Sherlock in the throes of an overdose and… A dreadful thought occurred to him. “Greg, why did you check on Sherlock that night?”

Greg shrugged, not lifting his head. And when the silence seemed overwhelming, Mycroft tucked a finger beneath his chin and brought his gaze up. Haunted. “I couldn’t sleep,” Greg whispered. “I went for a walk and ended up near Regents. And…”

And Sherlock found you, his brain completed the thought. “And I made you stay.” And it was so horrible that you were sick on the way home, twice. “Oh God.”

“I would have stayed anyway.”

He would have. Mycroft could see it in the set of his jaw, a determined resolve. “No wonder you were so exhausted. The night I brought you here, you were apologising to the wind.”

Greg’s eyes went soft and sad. “I was apologising for cussing in front of children.”

“You…” Dear God, this man.

“Like to set a good example… Even if, you know.” It was a ghost of a smile.

“And here I simply thought you hated me.” He had not intended to say that out loud.

Greg’s expression changed again, smoothly melting into fond exasperation. “Hate you? Why would you think that?”

“The first time we met…”

“It was less than an hour before I was clocking out. And I thought you looked like sex in a suit.” Greg clamped his mouth shut, blushing furiously.

Mycroft lifted a brow slowly. “Pardon? Sex in a suit?”

Greg bit back a grin.

“I suppose I was referring to our first proper meeting.”

“Oh.” Greg narrowed his eyes. “You had me abducted-”

“Collected-”

“-In the dark-”

“-It was evening-”

“-To Liverpool Street Station!”

“I…” There was something significant about the location itself, wasn’t there? “... Did. Yes.”

“You know I was working in 2005. In London.”

The dawning realisation was chilling. “You were on duty. Where? Were you at-”

“Aldgate. I… I responded to Aldgate. So… Some of them are still… There.”

It was terribly unlikely for Mycroft to be rendered speechless so often in such a short amount of time. Or by the same person. Yet, somehow, Gregory did not seem angry. Not appalled. It would be so easy to hate Mycroft for every moment of pain, inflicted knowingly or otherwise. But Greg remained sitting on his knees, patiently waiting for Mycroft to piece another desperate slight together. “You were teasing me, at the club.”

“You had to look up Haniel Long,” Greg accused, his eyes lighting with mischief.

“I did. Though I’m glad to be proven correct that you needn’t worry about bodies in my basement.”

“... ‘Course not.”

Greg had paused a fraction of a moment too long. He’d hurried too quickly through the brush off comment . “Oh no. Is this house haunted?!”

“It’s not,” he held up both hands. “Not… haunted. I mean, there aren’t bodies in the basement, that’s for sure.”

Mycroft stared. “Not bodies? Or not in the basement?”

Greg tilted his head back and forth, an odd smile on his face. “Neither?”

Mycroft felt his mouth drop open, which somehow added to Greg’s amusement. “Greg Lestrade, you tell me this instant. Are there ghosts in my house?!”

Greg looked simply delighted. “Not ghosts.” His brow flicked.

Mycroft groaned and flopped backwards into the corner of the couch. It was melodramatic. Petulant even. But he was being teased. Greg shuffled forward, inching his way into Mycroft’s lap, settling so his knees framed Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft sighed up at him. “Not bodies, not ghosts, not in the basement.” He felt his mouth pull. If none of those, then what? “No bodies? No body singular?”

“No.”

“Ghost? Singular?”

“Warmer.”

“But not… Angry. You aren’t uncomfortable here. I haven’t seen you move around this house the way you walk near crime scenes or historical sites or… on your way home from church.” Mycroft cocked his head to the side. “You meant literally.”

Greg lifted a brow in question.

“You said you liked having a chance to speak with your mother and grandmother. That was… All Saints Day. You meant literally. You can…”

Greg nodded, resting his hands on Mycroft’s chest. “It’s a… Weird set of days for me. Stressful. But…”

“You were ill.”

“I was overwhelmed. It was a rough few months.”

Mycroft hummed, considering, drumming his fingers on the tops of Greg’s thighs. “So. There is a ghost in my home. But it is a civil ghost. It does not reside in the basement. And it does not alarm you.”

“I think he kinda likes me,” Greg said innocently.

“Likes you?” He traced a finger along the angle of Greg’s jaw, watching the gentle shiver trace through his shoulders. “I quite like you.” Mycroft shook himself. Where had Greg been to converse with a household ghost? “I certainly hope  _ he _ wasn’t harassing you in the guest room.”

“Now you’re just fishing.”

“I do not fish,” he huffed. “I give up. Gregory, please. Just tell me.”

Greg tipped down, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s “You aren’t even trying.”

He was less inclined to try now. Far more inclined to take advantage of the lovely, warm mouth hovering just over his. He lifted his chin, brushing against Gregory’s lips. Greg let out a muted sound of contentment as his weight settled more firmly against Mycroft’s frame. It felt like permission and it felt a small bit like abdication, resigning himself to the unknown. Then again, should Greg insist upon kissing him like  _ that. _ Mycroft groaned softly as Greg pulled back, trapping Mycroft’s lower lip in his teeth for a long, drawn out moment.

“You,” Mycroft murmured, “are hauntingly distracting.”

A roguish, pleased grin stretched across Greg’s face. “I am?” His gaze flit between Mycroft’s eyes and his mouth. “Good thing you’re not in a suit,” he replied. It startled a laugh out of Mycroft and Greg’s smile grew. Something caught his attention, drawing first a glance then a look. Something over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Oh no.”

“What?” Mycroft twisted, trying to catch sight of… something. “What is it?” There was nothing there - nothing that he could see. Was there nothing there? Or… “Gregory?”

Greg tucked his tongue into his cheek, his eye alight with mischief. “What?”

Cheeky. Puckish. Greg chuckled, doubling over with his mirth as Mycroft pursed his lips. It was contagious. The playfulness. The devilish humor. Fair was fair. Mycroft shoved, sending him onto his back as Mycroft followed, sprawling on top of him and pinning him to the sofa. “That was mean.”

Greg smirked, unrepentant. “Made you look.”

“Tease.”

~

“You really could let me do that,” Greg rested his chin in his hand, leaning against the worktop.

“You said it yourself this morning,” Mycroft stirred the eggs and poked at the bacon. “You are a guest here. I am more than happy to see you fed properly.”

“Is there something I can do to help?”

Mycroft flipped the bacon. “If you feel so inclined, you might set the table.”

“Mmn,” Greg pushed off the worktop and headed for the cutlery drawer. “And should we use the good china or the everyday china?”

Mycroft shifted the pan off the burner and crossed the distance to wrap his arms around Greg’s waist. He nuzzled into the side of his neck. “And who told you about the good china?”

Greg just laughed.

Mycroft hooked his chin over Greg’s left shoulder and gestured to different cutlery in the drawer. “This will do just fine.”

The rocking chair creaked and they both glanced up. For the briefest moment, Mycroft would swear he saw Rudy in the chair, smiling across the kitchen, a familiar knowing look on his face. In a blink, Greg shifted and Rudy was gone.

“Oh my God,” Mycroft murmured. “That…”

Greg half turned, his hands full of cutlery and pressed a lingering kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “Ghost of a good man. Don’t burn brunch.”


	17. Epilogue

Greg slid into the back of the car, snapped the door shut, and buried his face in his hands. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Mycroft bit back the urge to frown. The feeling was quite shared - yet another calm, pleasant night at home had been interrupted by Sherlock and his regrettable determination to find trouble. And where he couldn’t find it, he would cause it. “I empathise.” He paused, waiting for Greg to look at him, waiting to ensure he had undivided attention and the reassurance of being able to read his face. 

When Greg obliged, it was with tired eyes and a sullen grumble. “Oh you do, do you?”

Mycroft lifted a brow. “You know he’d only haunt you out of spite.”

Greg’s eyes blazed in the dim of the car.

“And truly, there are things that a younger brother should not be privy to.” This time, when Mycroft raised his eyebrow, it was with a far more salacious implication.

He snorted, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. “Oh God, he’d be a poltergeist; nothing but screaming and knocking things off the wall.”

Mycroft was glad for the humor. Greg was an affable person, but some of his darker moods were only salvageable through rather pointed banter emphasizing that Mycroft may not fully understand, but he was in the know. At least, he was now. “I cannot have that, Gregory.” Mycroft sniffed for the comedy of it all. “Some of our vases are from the Qianlong Dynasty.”

“Fine. Fine, I won’t kill him today. But seriously. Mycroft.” He flopped back against the seat with a groan. “Have you met his new, little friend?”

“I have had the pleasure of an introduction,” Mycroft murmured. The moment he’d realised that Sherlock had sourced a roommate, he had made it his business to vet the man. “He was equally as displeased with a first meeting-”

“Kidnapping,” Greg grumbled.

“Tete-a-tete,” he offered. “I did bring a chair for him.”

Greg pulled his lower lip between his teeth, equal parts concerned and amused. It sent a warm sensation blooming in Mycroft’s gut. “Did you now?”

“I did.” Mycroft tipped his head. “He refused the seat. Actually, I believe he called me melodramatic.”

“You are.”

“No more so than my brother,” he answered pointedly.

“Yeah, well. At least…” Greg trailed off with a frown.

“At least?” Mycroft prompted.

“I…” He rubbed a palm across his mouth. “I was going to say, at least I didn’t shoot a man dead for you, but…”

Ah. So it was Dr. Watson who dispatched the serial killer. It confirmed Mycroft’s suspicion and elevated his looming sense of dread. “And, what is your take on the situation at hand?”

Greg gave him a lost expression. Oh. Mycroft relocated to the seat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Greg leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes. “It’s complicated.”

He hummed and ruffled his fingers through the hair at the nape of Greg’s neck. “I do remarkably well with complicated.”

Greg huffed into his collar. “That cabbie was a nutter,” he shuddered but plowed on regardless. “I’m not even remotely broken up that he’s dead. Good riddance.”

“Mmn.”

“But that Watson bloke shot him.”

Mycroft nodded. From what he’d gathered, it was an unlikely shot with an even less likely choice of firearm. “He did.”

“And because he did, Sherlock’s still alive. Believe me, it’s the only reason…”

Oh. That was… upsetting. He twisted to buss a kiss across Greg’s forehead. “Sherlock will likely destroy any and all evidence of John Watson’s involvement.”

“I know.” Greg winced. “I don’t think I even want to…”

“Take it as a compliment. He has learned from your insistence on the how and evidence over simply answering the why.” Greg was quiet for a long moment, the emergency lights illuminating his hair in alternating colors as they flashed through the tinted windows. There was something else. Something weighing on his mind. Mycroft could feel it in the tension of Greg’s neck. “I can source a permit, ensuring that Dr Watson’s souvenir is legal.”

Greg nodded slowly. “He… Looks like Sherlock.”

Mycroft pulled back, meeting Gregory’s troubled gaze. “I don’t know what that means.”

He pressed his lips together. It wasn’t a frown or a flinch, but an expression that Mycroft had come to associate with hesitation, the brief reluctance to reveal an unknown. “When Sherlock… After the night.. After the ICU.” That he even troubled himself to lessen the impact of discussing the evening in question was more a testament to his ongoing disquiet than Mycroft’s emotional well being. “He always looked… Different.”

“Different?”

“He has a shadow. No, not a shadow.” Greg frowned. “It’s like there’s an echo of him. He moves fast and the ghost of him is a fraction of a second behind him. Like he has one foot in and one foot out.”

“That sounds disconcerting.” Mycroft settled his hand between Greg’s shoulderblades.

He heaved a breath. “I thought I had a migraine the first time.”

“And, Dr. Watson has the same?”

Greg nodded.

“I have conducted a background check. Would it ease your mind to know that John Watson is recently returned to England after a traumatic injury in the line of duty? From the field reports, he was lucky to survive his evacuation to Germany and then only barely. It is likely he arrested on the table or before reaching surgery.”

Greg gave a weak sound of assent. “I guess. Yeah.”

“Are you needed here any longer?”

He took a steadying breath and eased out of Mycroft’s embrace. “Give me a mo, I’ll get Sally on it. Then I can go.”

“I shall wait here for you.” Mycroft straightened Greg’s collar, set his hair to rights. “Then I would hope to take you home, finish dinner, and perhaps spend what remains of the evening in bed.”

“Please.” Greg smiled. “If I wasn’t so bloody hungry, I’d say sod dinner, straight to bed.”

Mycroft captured Gregory’s face between his palms and kissed him firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Greg grinned, twisted to pop the door open. “Right. Back in a tick.”

Mycroft felt the smile twist the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. “Do hurry. I find myself horribly impatient. I could expire of hunger. Die of boredom.”

Greg leaned back in through the open car door. “Not. Funny.”

“I will languish… waste away as I anticipate your return.”

“Myc,” Greg dropped his voice in warning. “You’re awful. See if I tell you about the lad sitting shotgun right now.”

“Gregory.” He shot a nervous glance to the front of the car, the privacy screen down, no one in either seat that he could see.

Both of Greg’s brows went up and he rolled his tongue out across his lower lip. “Made you look.”

“Greg!”

The door snapped closed in the wake of Greg’s laughter. Mycroft frowned, crossing his legs neatly. He would never die of boredom, that was for certain. He also refused to return to his original seat. He was happy to wait here, watching the front seats carefully. Goodness, but his partner was a horrible tease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am going to add one more chapter after this. Essentially an Author Q&A. I'll flesh out some of the legend and myth involved, a few of the odd references I made. If you have any questions for me, please comment below! I'll do my best to answer them.


	18. Author Q&A

**Ewebie:** Hey, everyone. I’ve done author’s notes before, but I’ve never done a Q&A exactly. But since I’m sure people have questions that are easier for someone… not me to answer, I brought along two of my friends.

**Greg:** Hey.

**Mycroft:** Good evening.

**Ewebie:** Excellent. Perfect. I’m glad you two could make it.

**Greg:** Yeah, why doesn’t Sherlock have to be here?

**Ewebie:** Um… because… he barely had a speaking role.

**Mycroft:** I feel you underestimate the amount he speaks. Particularly once he gathers momentum.

**Ewebie:** But Anthea had more dialogue than he did… And I didn’t even  _ Name _ her in this.

**Mycroft:** A slight for which she is eminently cross.

**Ewebie:** uh… okay… That’s cool. *whisper*  _ send help. _ Besides, do YOU want Sherlock here?

**Mycroft:** Absolutely not.

**Ewebie:** So there you have it.

**Greg:** Fine. Fine, fine, you’re right.

**Ewebie:** … Coooool… So, I was thinking, we might start at the beginning and then take a few of the reader questions, unless anyone has any more objections?

**Greg:** There’s probably some stuff that people shouldn’t… you know… know about.

**Mycroft:** Not to worry. I will be… reviewing this. With final editorial permission.

**Greg:** Thanks, babe.

**Mycroft:** You are very welcome.

**Ewebie:** Ok. Anyway. First impressions. Mycroft, you… later admitted that you found Greg attractive in person.

**Mycroft:** I was mildly taken aback, yes. There was something quite genial about him. Amused in spite of the circumstances. And frank.

**Greg:** Greg.

**Mycroft:** *huff* You said that I was sex in a suit.

**Greg:** I… We can move on.

**Ewebie:** Tell me about the first official meeting.

**Greg:** Kidnapping.

**Mycroft:** We’ve been over this. It was a previously undisclosed appointment.

**Greg:** Really? Still going with that?

**Mycroft:** I had absolutely no way of knowing-

**Ewebie:** Hey, so… Liverpool Street Station? Why there?

**Mycroft:** One of the lower levels was under construction and I had access to the space. It seemed adequate for what I required at the time.

**Greg:** What you required at the time? Jesus, Myc.

**Ewebie:** I’ve it on good authority that it’s the most haunted station in London. I googled it… With the exception of Bethnal Green.

**Mycroft:** Is it?

**Greg:** It probably is now… What with the whole…

**Ewebie:** … Ah. Right. But you didn’t…

**Greg:** I’d heard that people thought it was haunted there. But frankly, some dude in work coveralls isn’t that intense. Stuff from two hundred years ago is not quite so loud as fifteen years. 2005 was a hard summer. And with having been at Aldgate… familiar voices.

**Ewebie:** Maybe… I have a question from one of the readers. Greg, you were raised Catholic. Want to tell us about that?

**Greg:** Wasn’t everyone?

**Mycroft:** Certainly not.

**Ewebie:** I was.

**Greg:** So you know how it is. Equal parts superstition and tradition. I think anyone that made it out of the dark ages without being burned as a witch managed to hide in the church. And no Church, the Catholics included, have ever really denied ghosts or spirits. Hell, they had a whole meeting to ban lighting candles in cemeteries to keep from upsetting the sleep of the Saints.

**Ewebie:** Do you believe in exorcisms?

**Mycroft:** Are you quite serious?

**Greg:** … in a manner of speaking. I mean, the incense and the crucifix no. But the concept, yes.

**Mycroft:** You do?

**Ewebie:** Your partner can speak to the dead and you’re going to question exorcisms?

**Mycroft:** Gregory, do not laugh.

**Greg:** I’m not.

**Ewebie:** Yeah, ok. New question, hm?

**Mycroft:** Please.

**Ewebie:** This is from-

**Greg:** Is that message on fire?!

**Ewebie:** Uh… yes. That’s normal. Don’t look at me like that, Mycroft. It’s about your grandmother, Greg. Do you want to tell us a bit more about her?

**Greg:** Well, Nana. She was… She was lovely. She liked to bake. Whenever she was around, the kitchen always smelled like biscuits or pie. She knew about me before my mum did, I think. Apparently the men in the family had never... It was unusual. But she didn't seem to mind.  


**Ewebie:** When did you know?

**Greg:** Always? You know when your mum talks to you as a kid, telling stories and stuff. And you walk down the street and she holds your hand and points things out. You just… Know? Learn? Nana explained it all so well that I guess I never questioned it. I learned a lot from her. Everything really. At least not… She died when I was fourteen, I think. It was hard.

**Ewebie:** It was mentioned that… Well, she was… 

**Greg:** She misplaced her trust and it’s not really pitchforks and torches anymore, but everyone was happier thinking she was a crazy old lady than believing everything she said…

**Mycroft:** … Gregory.

**Greg:** No. I’m fine.

**Ewebie:** So, did it make it hard to, you know… Tell… Mycroft?

**Greg:** Ha!

**Mycroft** : I have known people less forthcoming with ample persuasion tactics applied.

**Greg:** You didn’t torture it out of me.

**Mycroft:** I think I rather did.

**Ewebie:** You aren’t… allowed to torture people?

**Mycroft:** Of course not.

**Greg:** Sometimes, it just gets to be a lot. Too much maybe. To be on your own with it. And I don’t think I could take it anymore.

**Ewebie:** And he probably would have figured it out?

**Greg:** Yeah. And he would have figured it out.

**Ewebie:** You weren’t totally hiding it though.

**Greg:** No.

**Mycroft:** You were.

**Greg:** I made undead jokes and said that I sleep like the dead to your face.

**Mycroft:** Common turns of phrase.

**Greg:** I cited Haniel Long.  _ Dead men tell no tales _ . Like you didn’t get that.

**Mycroft:** I very much assumed it was in reference to the fact that I had the gentleman responsible for Mr. Andrade’s demise taken care of.

**Greg:** Why would you think that?!

**Mycroft:** You implied that my knowledge of Benjamin Franklin’s scientific treaties revolved around burying bodies in my cellar and airbathing.

**Greg:** You do airbathe.

**Mycroft:** I do not. Besides, your demeanor at the time was quite distracting.

**Greg:** Why? Just because it was the first time I was talking to you without a bunch of screaming arsholes trying to get my attention?

**Mycroft:** … you never told me they were screaming.

**Greg:** N-no. Not all of them. London's big. And the sidewalks are busy, if you know what I mean. It’s just that… Well morgues and hospitals… Old detention centres that burned down and exploded train lines. They’re all a bit… Besides, I meant Sherlock.

**Mycroft:** Good Lord.

**Greg:** He’s very loud.

**Ewebie:** Does he know?

**Mycroft:** Does he know what, precisely?

**Ewebie:** Do-does he know that Greg can… you know…

**Greg:** No. And I really don’t want him to.

**Ewebie:** So he doesn’t remember the whole…

**Greg:** Being dead for a bit? No. Thank Christ. Could you imagine if people remembered whatever the hell that is?

**Ewebie:** Right. Ok. Um… Tell us about your flat.

**Greg:** … It’s just a flat.

**Mycroft:** Now that I am better acquainted with him, it makes sense. However, it was quite unusual to me when I first stepped in.

**Greg:** Unusual? It’s a flat.

**Ewebie:** Is it?

**Greg:** I mean, it was my Nana’s flat, and mum and I lived there… And then I couldn’t really get rid of it after…

**Mycroft:** You went to Edinburgh for University, didn’t you.

**Greg:** Yes. But you knew th-oh. Right. Yeah. Neat city. Very gothic. Small. But a lot of… history.

**Ewebie:** History as in?

**Greg:** Eh… It’s… Old. Lots’a you know…  _ History _ .

**Ewebie:** Ooooh. So… Like, was it... Training?

**Mycroft:** I believe he was there for higher education.

**Greg:** Yeah. That. Then Manchester. Then back home.

**Ewebie:** To your Nana’s flat?

**Greg:** Yeah.

**Mycroft:** I was quite taken with the ceiling.

**Greg:** You’re just mad that you didn’t recognise a Haint blue ceiling when you saw one.

**Ewebie:** I love your flat.

**Greg:** … Yeah, ok. It’s a two bed. It’s small. It has a fireplace that I rarely use. And the plumbing is dodgy.

**Mycroft:** It is a study in well-controlled mythology.

**Greg:** Mythology... 

**Mycroft:** You have a ceiling painted a very specific colour to ward off evil spirits. You have a mirror opposite the door to frighten off ghosts that would enter unbidden. You have a south west facing flat. You have a horseshoe over the door. You keep miscellaneous items in a silver bowl. I am well aware that fire is designed to discourage spirits and faeries. Heather and lavender are supposed to be protective. And black cats are rumored to be able to see spirits. Did I forget anything?

**Greg:** Did you know that babies born at midnight have the ability to see and talk to ghosts?

**Mycroft:** I was… unaware.

**Ewebie:** I’ve heard that All Saints Day is the best day to talk to relatives.

**Greg:** Yeah. It is. But Christmas Eve is their favorite day to be, you know, out and about.

**Ewebie:** Really?

**Greg:** And if someone sees a ghost, and you look over their left shoulder, you’ll see it too.

**Mycroft:** Oh. I… Did not realise. And I had forgotten the salt.

**Greg:** I spilled that.

**Mycroft:** Out of your pocket when you were filling the corners of your flat.

**Greg:** Yeah… ok. Maybe. Also, Nana has one of my baby shoes under a floorboard somewhere.

**Mycroft:** How bizarre.

**Greg:** Hey… At least I know not to leave an empty rocking chair in the corner of my damn kitchen.

**Mycroft:** You didn’t have a problem with Rudy!

**Greg:** I don’t have a problem with Rudy. He just… startled me. And empty rocking chairs are bad… 

**Mycroft:** Well, it is not empty.

**Ewebie:** Does Rudy tell you secrets about Mycroft?

**Greg:** Oh yeah.

**Mycroft:** He does not!

**Ewebie:** Neat. Tell me later-

**Mycroft:** -Do not!

**Ewebie:** Right. The Clash?

**Greg:** I… Had a bit of a rebellious phase. And I was a fan. Plus, Straight to Hell kinda speaks to me, and I know the lyrics by heart. It was the first thing that came to mind and I can’t say I was thinking particularly clearly.

**Ewebie:** Do you want to talk about what happened with Blackwell?

**Greg:** No.

**Mycroft:** Absolutely not. We will not be discussing that.

**Ewebie:** Cool. Ok. No worries. That’s… Fine. Ok. How about another reader question?

**Greg:** Yeah. Ok.

**Ewebie:** This one says… Lots of questions. First of all, how dare you… Oookay.

**Mycroft:** Why is there an infant hippo drawn on that page?

**Ewebie:** … No reason. None at all.

**Greg:** Like the flowers over there. Pretty.

**Ewebie:** Yeah. Love hibiscus.

**Mycroft:** They do add a certain… polish. Brightens the entire space.

**Ewebie:** Oh, that reminds me. One last question. How are things? Going? Now? For… the two of you?

**Greg:** Going?

**Mycroft:** Comfortably.

**Greg:** Yeah. It’s good.

**Mycroft:** We are… Spending excellent time together.

**Greg:** Yeah. We really are.

**Ewebie:** Are you still in separate flats?

**Mycroft:** That is an exceptionally personal question.

**Greg:** Nope.

**Mycroft:** Gregory.

**Greg:** What? I like living with you. Do y’know he even let me paint the entryway?

**Ewebie:** Did he now?

**Mycroft:** This is absurd.

**Ewebie:** Does Inky like it?

**Greg:** Sure. Lots of space to explore. And he likes the food there better.

**Mycroft;** He has refused to understand that the bed is off limits.

**Greg:** He is allowed on the bed.

**Ewebie:** And… work?

**Greg:** It’s fine. I have started to um… delegate?

**Ewebie:** Has he?

**Greg:** He has not. At all.

**Mycroft:** I have so.

**Greg:** Ha!

**Mycroft:** I do not have to sit here…

**Greg:** You um… Probably should… Just, with the… over there… 

**Mycroft:** Nice try, Gregory. I can see her.

**Greg:** Yeah. I’m not talking about her, I’m talking about the doll she’s holding…

**Ewebie:** Um. She organised this. I can’t kick her out.

**Greg:** *whispering*  _ How is she here if you didn’t invite her in? _

**Ewebie:** … That… Is a very good question.

**Mycroft:** And that is quite enough.

**Ewebie:** So… Someone I can only assume is Mycroft’s assistant is looking at me in a way that says it’s time to go. So I’m gonna sign off. Thanks to Greg and Mycroft for agreeing to participate in… all of this.

**Greg:** No problem; this was fun.

**Mycroft:** We had no real choice in the matter. Author's and Narrator's preference and such.

**Ewebie:** Right.


End file.
